


Stigmatic

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Hand Jobs, Homelessness, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Old Men Crying, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Smut, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Strippers & Strip Clubs, darn beautiful men in my trash, good guy jimmy snakes, jimmy snakes needs to be stopped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-02-27 15:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13251543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: “No one will want me,” Ford says, voice hoarse and watery, Stan feels tears and snot getting on his shirt, but it was already dirty.“I’ll want you. I’m always gonna want ya,” he glares at his brother with the vindication of the truly young. “Heck, I’ll be your soulmate!” He declares, and he’s too young to know what that means but he feels it like a solid truth; like the sky is blue and Ma’s a liar. Ford sniffles.“We’re brothers!” He says but there’s a wobbly smile forming on his face. Stan scoffs.“So! I, ya know, I...well I like ya and we’re twins! Who else would be your soulmate?” Stan grins, linking their hands together. “Together forever, Sixer!” And Stan blows a raspberry on the small dark mark of a six fingered hand.





	1. Cast Out

Stan gets his soul mark first, a funny shape like a fish eating a circle. He whines about how stupid it looks until Ford convinces him it’s a shark chasing a coin. 

“It means that one day you’ll be rich!” Ford says, face round and soft, a dusting of freckles appearing like stars on his sunburned face. Stan beams, twelve years old and gullible, eating up any word his brother throws his way.

Stan tries to return the favor when Ford gets his mark a month later; when Ford curls around his branded wrist, sniffling and crying. Stan’s shaking when he finally crests the ladder to the upper bunk and crawls to hug his brother. Ford turns and they tangle together--too old for this kind of boyish vulnerability, but Stan can ignore that low rumble of his father’s disapproval whispering in his head. He eventually pulls the marked wrist toward himself, baring it to the dim light of a summer’s late sunset. He kisses the mark, blushing darkly. 

“No one will want me,” Ford says, voice hoarse and watery, Stan feels tears and snot getting on his shirt, but it was already dirty. 

“I’ll want you. I’m always gonna want ya,” he glares at his brother with the vindication of the truly young. “Heck, I’ll be your soulmate!” He declares, and he’s too young to know what that means but he feels it like a solid truth; like the sky is blue and Ma’s a liar. Ford sniffles.

“We’re brothers!” He says but there’s a wobbly smile forming on his face. Stan scoffs.

“So! I, ya know, I...well I like ya and we’re twins! Who else would be your soulmate?” Stan grins, linking their hands together. “Together forever, Sixer!” And Stan blows a raspberry on the small dark mark of a six fingered hand.

* * *

Ford is the first to get his soulmate’s mark. Stan pretends his isn’t disappointed when Ford shouts and sprints out of the bathroom and starts shoving his hand in Stan’s face.

“Look! I got it! I have a soulmate!” Ford is ecstatic, gangly and awkward at sixteen, stretched like taffy while the rest of his body tries to catch up. 

“Geez, Sixer, watch it, you tryin’ to clock me?” Stan grabs the flailing limb and feels Ford vibrating with excitement.

“No, Stan, just--gah! Look!” Ford turns his arm in Stan’s grasp, revealing a newly made mark in the shape of a triangle with a circle missing from the center. Stan doesn’t know why the mark makes a shiver run up his spine and a weight settle in his gut, but he grins, anyway, slapping Ford on the back--maybe harder than he has to. Ma is ecstatic when Ford shows her and even forces him to shyly bare his wrist to Pops, who barely looks, just grunts. She makes them all go out to the pizza joint and won’t stop talking loudly about Ford’s new mark and how mature that makes him and Stan would feel bad if his brother wasn’t blushing like a freckled berry. Stan tells him this and gets a burnt piece of crust thrown at his head. Ma’s so happy she only scolds them for two minutes.

There isn’t a party for Stan, just his Ma pulling him aside one day and telling him that: “it’s okay, baby, some people don’t have a soulmate, but hey! Silver lining, that means you get to love anybody.” She pats the thick, leather cuff he’s taken to wearing to cover his wrist. He nods and is sent on his way with a kiss on the cheek and a: “Ma! Come on!”

Even Ford feels bad for him, offering to cover up his mark, too. 

“Nah, Sixer, you outta show that baby off! How else are ya gonna land that foxy triangle.” He winks and Ford blushes, flapping his hands in pleased indignation. They both laugh it off but when it gets dark and Ford’s breaths even out, Stan takes off the cuff and slips a hand under his waistband, and muffles his grunts and moans against the small, dark mark of a six fingered hand.

* * *

Stan gets away with it for about a year, the cuff gets dark with sweat and grime, leather curling and growing stiff. Ma insists he throw it out, but Stan can’t find one big enough and tight enough to keep his mark hidden. It takes Ma chewing him out one too many times at the dinner table for Pops to put down his newspaper, controlled but lethal.

“Take off the damn bracelet.” He says, the sunglasses reveal nothing but Stan feels pinned, like a rat in a spring trap. He squirms but he can’t say no, he physically can’t, not with Ma and Ford looking at the exchange, feeling the air charge with the energy unique to a focused Pops. Stan is shaking when he unties the filthy cord and the leather cuff loosens enough that he can pull it off and put it on the table, carefully keeping his wrist down. Pops pulls the newspaper back to its usual position. A silent sigh of relief is shared, the turbulent moment over. Stan keeps his wrist down, he figures he can use some boxing tape to cover it until he finds a better solution. He feels a kick at his feet and glances up at his brother, who's giving him an encouraging smile. Stan returns it, a bit strained and distracted. It's a little odd, eating with one hand, but he manages, ignoring Ma’s sympathetic looks. 

“Wow, Ma, ya really out did yaself on that one!” He smacks his lips dramatically, rubbing his stomach. 

“Still ya turn to do the dishes, Stanley.” She drawls, fond. Stan groans, but stands, carefully balancing his dishes in one hand. Ford follows him, placing his dishes on the counter. 

“I'm going to study,” he says, giving Stan one last look before going off to do all of his nerd things. Stan is careful and quiet, taking Pops’ dishes and finally comes for his Ma’s. He gets cocky and a cup slips, his free hand snatches it in the air and he remembers the filthy cuff on the table and not on his wrist and--

“Stanley, look! Ya gotta mark!” He sees her red nails fly out like so many small snakes. She grabs his wrist and the dishes clatter to the table top. Ma gasps, free hand flying to her face and Stan hears but refuses to watch Pops put down the newspaper and seeing.

“The hell is that?” Pops growls, low like thunder. Stan wrenches his hand from his Ma’s grasp.

“Nothing,” he mumbles, marked wrist held close to his gut.

“Speak up, boy.” And now Pops has his full attention on Stan and he's screwed, he's so screwed.

“Stanley, baby, go to your room.” Ma says, voice a little wobbly but firm. Stan nods and flees, hearing:

“Filbrick, calm down. These things can change.”

“Knew there was something wrong about that boy, too damn cozy with his brother. Riding more than his coattails, looks like.”

“Filbrick!”

And Stan runs to his room, ignores his brothers concerned questions, and collapses face first into his bed. He hears Ford walking over, feels the bed dip, a six fingered hand rest on his shoulders.

“Stan, what happened?” Ford sounds so soft, so concerned and Stan squishes his damning arm under his body, keeping the sickness manifested as a black mark a secret from his brother, at least a little longer. “Is this about the mark? Stan, it's okay to not have a soulmate, you can always still get one!” Ford awkwardly pats his back, too fast and light, very Ford. Stan groans into the mattresses again. “And you'll have so many choices! You're always going on about babes and now you don't have to wait for some random anomaly to guide you to some kind of...compatible mate! You get to choose!”

“N’n don’.” Stan says to the mattress, resolve forming before his better sense can talk him down.

“...Stan, you're talking into the mattress, I can't understand you.” Ford has stopped patting his shoulder so Stan rolls and sits up, back to the wall.

“I gotta mark, Ford.” He grumbles, defensive and, deep down, terrified. Ford, of course, beams.

“That's great news! Why are you upset? Is it a silly mark? Let me see!” And Ford is so eager, so excited. He's almost bouncing, trying to crawl into the bed after Stan. Stan stops him by shoving out his arm, wrist up. Ford laughs, take his hand and freezes. Then Ford wrenches away from him with a shocked gasp.

“I don’t...I don't understand.” Stan chances a glance at Ford and feel his heart get torn straight out of his chest and thrown to the gulls.

Ford look horrified. Stan feels his face spasm and finally settled for something ugly and bitter.

“Looks like freak runs in the family,” and he doesn’t recognize his own voice, it sound warbling with tears and almost cruel. He doesn’t look at his brother, just curls around himself and waits, waits, waits.

“...Is this why you’re so obsessed with the damn boat.” Ford’s voice is so cold and Stan looks up, finally, and sees Ford wearing a face he’s never seen--not at himself, not at dad, not even at fucking Crampelter. It’s suspicious, defensive. Aggressive. Stan’s stupid lizard brain answers in kind.

“The fuck does that mean?” He slides off the bed and stands, feels one foot sliding back into a loose fighting stance. Ford notices and, fuck, he sneers.

“ You’ve been obsessed with that boat since we were kids! I thought it was some childish dream,” and, damn, that hurts to hear and just pisses Stan off, “but, it turns out it was just some, some,  _ perversion _ .” Ford snarls and Stan is ready to spit venom like a damn cobra, but Ford's shouting and that means Pops throws the door open and Stan finds himself dragged down the stairs, his Ma screaming and hollering:

“ Filbrick Pines, you stop---that’s my  _ baby _ \--Filbrick--!”

And then a duffel bag hits Stan square in the chest as his ass hits the pavement.

“You are no longer welcome here.” Pops says and the door slams.

“Ford, come on! You know me, I wouldn’t-Stanford!” But no one comes to the window and Stan is alone. It happens so fast, a blur, a nightmare. He stands and numbly crawls into his car and drives. He drives until he can’t see straight and a truck blares a horn at him for drifting into the wrong lane. He drives just a little longer to tempt fate. No takers, so he pulls over and cries himself to sleep like a bitch.

* * *

 

He doesn’t hang around in Jersey. He should, he’s got people who’ll put him up, but he can’t. Not when Ford’s face is seared in his mind like a brand. And, really, he knows it’s his fault. He always knew he loved Ford way too much, too fiercely. He’d hoped that when he got his soulmate’s mark that all of that wrongness would go away, that he’d be able to love Ford the way Ford loves him. He was lucky that he’d been alone in the locker room, unwrapping his hands and wrists after boxing practice. The first, obfuscated splotch of black had his heart racing, excited anticipation and he tore the rest of the tape free and--

His heart drops into his stomach hard enough he almost throws up. 

He stares at his wrist and he remembers: he is a small boy, wandering by the docks and he finds a pigeon face down in the sand, under the pier. It’s soft and gray, the head bent away from Stan, one wing just barely curled against the sand the other pulled flat. Stan grabs a stick, delighted to poke at this new find. A few cautious gabs confirm that it’s dead and he manages to flip it over. The entire underside of the bird is black, completely rotted, so hollowed out that not even maggot or crabs remain. It unsettles something in Stan and he drops the stick, jogging away to find his brother.

Stan feels like that bird; like the universe has finally flipped him over and shown his black, rotting spot. He feels light headed, detached, like he’s been clocked in the jaw. He break into the supply closet, finds a coarse brush and starts scrubbing at his wrist, gritting his teeth when the bristles start to drag like gravel, when it goes from uncomfortable to burning and he has to stop because no matter how deep he goes the mark is still there, still black and damning. 

He rinses his arm, getting dirt and skin off the raw pink and redness. He bandages it and tapes it up. When Ma asks what happened, he tells her that he hurt his wrist.

* * *

His first few products are a bust. He knows they’re shit, but it still hurts to have his televised failures follow him from state to state. As the years go by he kicks himself; the cops, the loan sharks, all of them have a sound bite of his voice and a picture of his face in numerous disguises and he has to go further and further west to run from the mistakes of his youth. (He still can’t run far enough, can’t outrun his own skin.)

He tries, though. 

He splurges and buys rum in a glass bottle, and not the little shots, but a full forty. He has to skip dinner, but that’s fine, he’d end up throwing it back up anyway. He curls up in his car, parked under an overpass that would be crawling with the homeless if an unseasonable snow hadn’t forced the vagrants into shelters. (Though, Stan takes a moment to realize, again, that HE is homeless.) He’s got a bundle of filthy blankets and he makes himself a scratchy but warm nest and starts chugging. 

He doesn't know what day it is, there's no need for a calendar when you've got no appointments. 

He gets drunk fast, because he hasn't had a full meal in days and he's already miserable. He's not even a fourth through the bottle when his fingers get numb and too warm, he thinks that's a bad thing but he doesn't care. 

He thinks he hears a noise like the bang of a car door. He scrambles and finds in the depths of his cocoon inside a coat pocket the pocket knife he lifted from a Kansas gift shop. It won't do jack shit against a gun or tire iron, but it makes him feel a little safer. He can't fully kick free from his blankets, so he wiggled like a worm on a hook until he can peer out the filthy window of his car. There are a few men, standing over a popped car trunk, they exchange an envelope and a bag and Stan sighs in relief, rum breath fogging the glass. It was only a drug deal, thank goodness. This town was small enough that they wouldn't bother with a dark car or the homeless bum inside. They leave, quickly as they came, Stan still leaning against the car door, knife in hand. He deserves a drink after that.

He gets a few more pulls of liquor before it hits his stomach wrong and he grimaces, putting the opened bottle to the side, splashing rum on his neck and blankets. He still has the knife. He looks at it. The handle is an awful print of the Kansas flag, blue and the little medallion's details lost to the compressed size and Stan’s wavering eyes. The blade itself is warped, the metal cheap enough that the tip has broken off and the whole thing bends to one side. He stares at it and his gaze catches on the mark on his wrist, usually hidden by his jacket sleeves. He idly taps the squared off edge of the knife against the mark, rum addled brain turning over sluggishly until it has an idea.

It’s the damn mark’s fault he got kicked out. If you can get rid of it, maybe if he stops being a sick freak, he can go back. It seems reasonable and it shouldn’t even hurt, not with how much he’s had to drink. Just in case, he gulps down some more rum, to steady his shaking hands. Hell, he should clean the area, too. The rum is cold and sticky on his wrist, but it’s all he’s got.

His first cut is too slow--it doesn’t break the skin, so Stan follows it with a quick, angry slash that--wow, goes a lot deeper that he thought it would. The skin pulls apart as if nothing ever held it together, blood wells in little beads before breaking and filling the pale, purple flesh under his skin. It starts to run over, down his palm, catching on the crevices of his head and heart line. His stomach does a sharp turn and he can feel the nausea twist into his brain. He swallows it down, brings the knife down again, barely seeing, barely feeling the way the skin rips silently apart. He brings his hand back too far and when the knife comes down it lands halfway down his forearm and tears deeply and Stan feels it this time, shouting and grabbing at his arm, knife falling. Blood is seeping through his fingers, down his arm, staining his already filthy blankets. Stan’s never been squeamish but his brain decides that between the blood loss, alcohol, and stress, to fuck off and Stan blacks out.

He wakes up in a hospital with a series of scolding doctors and nurses, stitches keeping his arm together.

He gets committed for being a danger to himself and others. 

Beside the large, ugly scar that almost killed him are two smaller scars: one just barely grazing the black mark and the other leaving a thin, pale line between the fifth and sixth finger.

 


	2. Aimless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan finds a place to belong but it still isn't family.

He meets up with Jimmy when he’s hooking at a popular biker bar; enough people come and go that he can hold onto anonymity and the owner doesn’t give him guff so long as he’s discreet--as discreet as a whore can be. Jimmy isn’t a client but Jimmy is the guy who starts the bar fight and Jimmy is the guy he ends up thrown out of the bar with.

“Damn, kitten, you got a nasty set of claws!” Jimmy spits out a loogie of blood and snot, laughing, hand slapping Stan hard on the shoulder. Stan grunts. That same shoulder had just recently been slammed into a floor.

“Watch the merchandise, buddy,” Stan straightens, tenderly checking his nose and his more breakable bits. He’d have to skip town now, find another place he could sell whatever he’s got. Judging by the swelling around his eye, he wouldn’t be getting any of the more upstanding Johns. The freaks were always cheapskates, too, damn it.

“What’re you even doin’ out here, kid?” Stan glances suspiciously at the man, broad and blonde and looking like he fell right out of a magazine with some bonus scrapes and bruises. Guy still got sunglasses on, somehow, even after the fight and the sight puts something warm and uneasy in his gut.

“What’s it to ya?” Stan rubs the drying blood from his face with the sleeve of his jacket, damn thing’s torn again.

“Yer gang must be pretty shitty to leave ya in a scrape like that,” the man says with a shrug. Stan scowls at him.

“What about yours? Didn’t see anyone else getting thrown out on their ass.” Stan shoves his hands in his pockets and walks off, time is money and he’s wasting both standing in front of this shit hole bar, talking to some biker model wannabe. When a hand grabs his arm he turns with practiced ease to clock the guy--and finds his fist in a warm, rough grasp, firm but not crushing. He’s close to the man, can see his reflection in the black lens of the glasses. He can see the yellow teeth catch the neon light, red and blue.

“Gang knows better,” the man says as a new commotion starts in the bar. “Know a distraction when they see one.” Stan starts as a number of men pour out of the bar and quickly hop on their bikes before speeding off. Stan looks back at the blond man, face slack with shock. “What’d’ya say, kitten? Wanna run with a pack for a while?” Stan shakes himself.

“I gotta car,” he says, pulling himself away from the man. He smirks.

“And I gotta room.” Something crashes in the bar and Stan thinks he hears sirens. The man is grinning. “Head to the Lonely Cactus! Ask for Jimmy!” He says and sprints to the rack of bikes, hopping on and peeling off faster than should be possible. When more bikers pour out of the bar, Stan bolts for his car and follows suit.

The Lonely Cactus is two towns over and Stan isn't sure why he keeps getting so many awkward glances until he rolls up to the kitschy building with a sign depicting a woman straddling a cactus, the lights still bright against the rising dawn.

It's a fucking strip joint.

Stan is suddenly very sure this is the most elaborate suggestion to become a stripper he's ever gotten, and he's gotten a few, his hairy gut be damned. Still, he wasted the gas and, if nothing else, he'll break the guy’s face a little.

The strip joint isn’t a classy place, but it isn’t crawling with bugs or fleas. The floor is pretty much dead, just a couple people sweeping up trash and wiping down tables. Stan does see a few painted girls, half-in-half-out of costume, leaning at a bar, chatting and smoking with the bartender, a lean woman who spots him immediately and gives a jerk of her head, signaling one of the girls to saunter over to him.

“You’re a bit late to the party, sugar.” She simpers at him, she’s wearing scuffed, casual high tops that clash garishly with the fringed, tearaway chaps. Stan grimaces.

“Yeah, thank...hell, Jimmy? Thank Jimmy for that,” he grumbles and she immediately relaxes out of her stripper’s stance into a more natural lean.

“Oh, fuck that man,” she drawls and shakes her head. “It’s alright, gals! One o’ Jimmy’s strays!” She barks back at the bar, earning a few chuckles and a bristle from Stan.

“I ain’t some--” he’s snarling and she shuts him up with a wave.

“Honey, it don’t mean nothin’. Now, come on, Jim’s probably dyin’ ta see ya.” She turns and walks off, no swagger or saunter or sway of her hips. Stan follows; he’s got nothing better to do.

She leads him to the back, knocks on a dirty, red door.

“Jimmy!” She calls and then turns, patting Stan on the arm. “He ain’t a bad guy.” And then she’s gone and Stan is standing, alone, in a fucking strip joint called the Lonely Cactus because he got thrown out of a bar with some crazy biker. Pops would have a field day.

“Dammit, woman, ya don’t interrupt--” the guy, Jimmy, throws open the door, sees Stan, and relaxes into a smile. “Well, hey, there, kitten!” Jimmy’s face is red and sweaty, strands of his blond hair sticking to his forehead where it falls out from under his bandana, his handlebar mustache is dark with what smells like whiskey and beer. “Come on in, kid!” He gestures Stan through the door, holding it open, so that once Stan is in the thing shuts with a loud click. Stan is stiff, worse case scenarios running through his head. He’s cornered; he’s trapped. There are three other people in this room, he’s outnumbered. There’s no way out and he’s such a moron, letting his damn temper take over his brain and he's gonna get killed or worse--

“Hey, easy, kid.” A heavy hand lands on his shoulder and Stan jumps, would have tried to clock the guy, but Jimmy learned from last time and the angle is all wrong. “This is the bruiser who kept my ass in one piece, better than y’all fuckers!” The grab turns into a hearty slap.

“Didn’t need us with fists o’ fury covering yer fat ass!” A guy in the corner says, pulling deep from a can of beer. Jimmy growls, playful but menacing.

“That’s why y’all should watch yer asses! Kitten’s gonna be backin’ me up!” Jimmy turns to him, smile big and strangely genuine. “What’d’ya say, kid?” And Stan does what he does best and makes the stupid choice.

“Why the fuck not,” he shrugs and then takes Jimmy’s proffered hand.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Jimmy says and his hand is unnervingly clammy. Stan just rolls with it.

* * *

Jimmy doesn’t have a soulmate. He’s not shy about it, either.

“No reason a tattoo I didn’ ask for to run my life,” he says with a wink and grope, the whore in his lap laughs. She doesn’t have to fake it, Jimmy can read a room like a book and pull strings like a musician. Stan stares at that patch of bare skin on Jimmy’s wrist with raw want, doesn’t realize he’s been obvious until Jimmy pulls him aside one day.

“Hey,” he starts, all sweet. “Look, don’t expect to see anything here,” Jimmy waves his blank wrist. “It ain’t that ya ain’t somethin’ special, ya are--” Stan grabs Jimmy’s wrist and kisses it, smirking at Jimmy’s surprised but intrigued expression.

“Don’t need a tattoo to run my life,” he says, all teeth and heat into the soft, pale skin of Jimmy’s wrist. Then he lets go. Jimmy slowly pulls his arm back, eying Stan like a new player to an old poker game.

* * *

Jimmy’s insistent that when they strip, they strip all the way. Jimmy takes off his sunglasses, his eyes are a dull, gunmetal gray that look old--and Jimmy’s no spring chicken. He's got laugh lines and crow's feet, his skin is dark and leathery from hours of riding through deserts and hot black top. But his eyes look older than he is and Stan almost wishes Jimmy would put the glasses back on, but that goes down another dark path Stan doesn't want to explore. Instead, he let's Jimmy untie his leather cuff, letting the damp, pale skin of his wrist see daylight.

Jimmy says nothing about the ugly, white scar or the two little ones, barely pays them any mind at all, just throws the cuff away and tangles his thick, rough hands in Stan’s growing mullet and pulling him into a kiss that is mostly mustache and teeth and Stan horrifies himself by wrenching his head back and sneezing. Jimmy still has his fingers in Stan’s hair and Stan can feel the mortification like a physical weight and then Jimmy's laughing full stomach laughs. He has to let go of Stan to wrap arms around his middle, tears starting to prick at his eyes.

“Fuck you!” Stan huffs, flushing and ready to bail when Jimmy grabs one of his clenched fists and pulls him forward to fall on the stained mattress next to him.

“If ya want, kitten.” Jimmy leans over and kisses his neck and it feels like a very large, very friendly caterpillar. Stan shudders around the urge to squirm and shakes with repressed giggles.  He feels Jimmy chuckle by his ear. “Honestly. Kitten, ain't met someone this sensitive.”

“Ain’t sensitive, ya just got a fuckin’ broom on yer face,” he says with a scowl. Jimmy chuckles again, dragging his mouth, mustache and all, down Stan’s neck to his collarbone. Stan shivers for a different reason.

“Ain't had no complaints, baby.” He purrs and runs a hand down Stan’s flank, rough hands catching on stray hairs. Stan grabs a fistful of Jimmy’s hair, the long, blond strands are coarse and greasy with rough living and sweat. Stan finds that he doesn’t mind in the slightest when Jimmy starts to nibble at his chest. Stan rests his palms on each of Jimmy’s shoulders, humming, scratching at the pale hair growing there.

“Better not chafe,” he grouses, betrayed by the smirk pulling up his lips. Jimmy just slithers down the length of Stan’s body, nibbling and sucking, facial hair scraping and tugging at Stan’s body hair and pubes until Jimmy’s between his legs, golden mane wild, mustache glorious, and looking every inch a porn star. He hovers there, hand resting on Stan’s hairy thigh, light pressure keeping them spread.

“Reading for a ride, kitten?” Jimmy just breathes over Stan’s dick and Stan shudders.

“You talk big, Jimmy,” Stan leers playfully down at Jimmy, who just rolls his eyes. “Put that money where ya mo- _AH!_ ” Stan gasps as Jimmy tactfully cuts him off, bypassing his dick, lifting his balls and licking a stripe from just above his asshole and up his sack. “Jesus! Warn a guy!” Jimmy sucks one of Stan’s balls into his mouth in response and Stan swears with feeling. Jimmy isn’t shy with his teeth, but he isn’t reckless, holding his mouth open enough that Stan only gets a hint of blunt pressure as Jimmy’s tongue palpitates his ball like he’s looking for something. Jimmy pulls of with a hard suck that hurts, dammit. “Asshole!” Stan smacks a hand at Jimmy’s head. Jimmy catches the hand and pulls it to rest on his blond head.

“You’ll wanna hang on, baby.” He purrs with a smug smirk that makes his mustache twitch. Stan scoffs, but lets both his hands slide to tangle in Jimmy’s hair. Jimmy sinks down. “Can’t wait to ride this big boy,” Jimmy just breathes, hot and wet, on Stan’s leaking dick and gently flicks a tongue out to clear the head of precum, digging into the slit. Stan fists the hair between his fingers, fighting the urge to buck into that teasing pleasure.

“Fuck.” He breathes.

“Soon,” Jimmy promises before delicately sucking the tip of Stan’s dick into his mouth. He rolls his furry lips over his teeth and that rough thatch of hair is a religious experience against the ridge of Stan’s dick. Stan moans with a rough thrust of his hips, dick grazing the top of Jimmy’s mouth as the man grunts. Jimmy grabs the base of Stan’s dick loosely, squeezing gently and turning, the other hand lowering to cradle Stan’s hairy balls.

“Shh.” Jimmy’s breath hits the wet spit on Stan’s dick and Stan growls, trying to jerk up.

“Quit teasin’!” He grumbles, wriggling uselessly. Jimmy smirks.

“You wanna kick it up, sweetheart, you’re gonna have to do some o’ the work.” Jimmy pulls back and stands, Stan groans at the loss of contact. Jimmy moves around the room, completely confident in his body, damn the slight sag to his ass. He finally makes his way back to the bed, tossing a bottle of lube and a condom at Stan’s head.

“Watch it!” Jimmy chuckles but instead of getting between Stan’s legs again, he straddles Stan’s chest, resting his ass on Stan’s chubby pecs, ass facing Stan's face, smirking over his shoulder.

“You know how to get me wet, kitten?” Stan tries not to choke on how fucking hot Jimmy is.

“Ain’t my first rodeo, old man.” He says and lets his hands fall with a loud clap on Jimmy’s ass. Jimmy jerks and chuckles before bending down, grabbing Stan’s dick again.

“Shame,” he says, voice a throaty rumble. “I woulda made it good.” And then he swallows Stan’s cock like a pro, mustache tangling with Stan’s pubes as Stan’s legs scramble at the mattress. Then Jimmy has the audacity to chuckle as he slides up and then down again. Well, fine, if Jimmy wants to play dirty. Stan hooks one hand around Jimmy’s thigh, the other pulls one ass cheek aside and Stan leans forward to lick over Jimmy’s asshole. Jimmy jerks, swears and Stan smirks before Jimmy rears up and turns to stare at him.

“The hell, honey-wasp?” Jimmy looks incredulous.

“What, too kinky?” Stan tries a sneer that falls as soon as Jimmy starts laughing.

“Oh, kitten, if ya wanted to try that, I’da cleaned house.” Jimmy settles back down. “Next time, baby.” Jimmy sighs on Stan’s dick and Stan really can’t complain about not eating shit when he’s got someone going down on his dick, kneading his balls, and Stan should probably be returning the favor.

Stan grabs up the lube, nothing special but not the off-brand, cheap shit Stan usually pockets. He can never get over the wet-fart sound lube makes when it squirts out; it’s so unsexy. Jimmy does an interesting shake of his hips at the sound, so Stan rubs the lube between his fingers, his palms, and lets both lubed hands land with wet smacks against Jimmy’s ass. Jimmy actually growls around Stan’s dick.

“Sorry,” he mutters, insincere, but he rubs and moves inward, letting his thumbs drag and pull at the crease between Jimmy’s ass. Stan isn’t usually on this end of sex, not without something filthy. He’s not quite sure what to do, how to follow Jimmy’s friendly, playful, sexy lead. Jimmy pulls off his dick with an obscene, wet sound.

“Need help, kitten?” He asks, a little hoarse and it should sound smug or condescending but it just sounds gentle and curious and Stan can’t even find it in himself to be offended. Instead:

“Not used to ya being so quiet, with ya talkin’ so much.” Stan rubs a wet thumb over Jimmy’s hole. The man rumbles his appreciation.

“Alright,” he says, and then lays his head on the crook where Stan’s leg meets his hips; Stan can feel every puff of air against the base of his dick, feels the curly hairs move. “Ya got your thumbs in the right place, but I think a finger in my ass would be just peachy.” Jimmy doesn’t wave his ass around like a porn star might, just let’s his rumbling voice travel from Stan’s thigh to his brain to his dick.

“Whatever you want, boss.” Stan says, throat dry no matter how many times he tries to swallow. He’s careful, slow, rubbing the puckered entrance before slowly, gently pushing in. There’s the firm resistance that every body offers, no matter how practiced, and once he pushes past the band of muscle, Jimmy groans.

“Good boy,” he sighs and Stan moans in response, hip twitching. Jimmy tugs lazily at his dick. “Fuck me with that thick finger o’ yours. I’ll tell ya when I want more.” Jimmy starts fucking himself on Stan’s finger and Stan thrusts back, listening to the gross, wet noises and Jimmy’s pornographic moans and sighs. “More,” he groans and Stan complies, gently pushing against the still tight ring of muscle that eventually gives. He’s got Jimmy sighing and huffing, fucking himself on Stan’s fingers. After about a minute of that Jimmy huffs and Stan bristles. “Babe, don’t forget the snake and eggs, huh?” Stan actually pauses at that.

“The what?” He asks and Jimmy looks over his shoulder, one thick brow raised, eyes glancing down meaningfully. Stan looks down and then scoffs. “Geez, Jimmy, ya weirdo.” But Stan slide one lubed up hand down Jimmy’s ass to cup his balls, getting the thick, blond curls wet and dark. Jimmy doesn’t seem to mind, sighing and moving his hips back against Stan’s fingers and into Stan’s hands.

“Another, come on, kitten.” Stan can’t see Jimmy’s face, but the man’s breath is hot and fast. Stan makes sure to be as much of a tease as he can, letting his third finger push just against the muscle of the hole before pulling back. He stops with a yelp when Jimmy grabs the base of his dick just a bit too hard. “Another time, baby,” Jimmy grits and Stan realizes that the man’s body is taut and sweating and Stan did that. “Open me up, honey-wasp, and I’m all yours,” Jimmy says with a thrust that has Stan watching his own damn fingers disappear into Jimmy’s ass and it shouldn’t be so erotic, considering what they’ve been doing, but Stan full on groans, palming Jimmy’s balls and fucking his ass with his fingers until Jimmy’s hips are stuttering and writhing. “Okay! Alright, kitten, okay.” Stan pulls his fingers free with a squelch as Jimmy sighs, kneeling up to stand on his knees and carefully swinging around until he’s facing Stan, at last, hips hovering above Stan’s red, wet, hurting dick.

“Jimmy,” he pleads, doesn’t mean to, but he does. Jimmy holds out a hand.

“Wrapper, babe.” And Stan scrambles to finds the condom that slid under his head and tosses it at Jimmy, who chuckles. Jimmy’s careful with the condom, a snug fit, but Stan doesn't mind, a tight condom is better than a loose one.

Jimmy’s gunmetal eyes are dark like storm clouds with lust and one hand spreads his wet ass and the other grabs Stan’s dick and Jimmy carefully sits down until his hairy, blond ass meets Stan’s dark pubes. They both groan at the contact.

“Always forget what a good, Jew cock feels like.” Jimmy groans and something in Stan groans for the wrong reasons.

“Never, ah,” Jimmy moves and, oh, he’s so hot and tight. “Struck me as kosher.” Stan gasps, hands grabbing at Jimmy’s waist. Jimmy laughs.

“Yer right,” he says, lets his thick hands settle on Stan’s shoulders. “Never had trouble mixing my meats and creams.” He says with a salacious waggle of his brows and Stan can’t help but laugh, can’t stop laughing.

“Jimmy--Jim that was.” He opens his eyes and Stan can’t stop the look of pure, untainted glee on his face. He surges up and kisses the bewildered, amused look off Jimmy’s face. Jimmy hums then gently pushes him down.

“I promised you a ride, baby,” he says and Stan can feel the rumble of his promise go straight to his dick before Jimmy bite his lips, puts two broad palms against Stan’s chest and fucking _rides_.

Stan is a writhing mess trying to meet Jimmy's hips, one wrist grasping a hand on his chest, the other scrambling at the sheets, at an arm, settling to tangle loosely in the dangling, gold hair.

Stan comes embarrassingly fast--before Jimmy. He’s still coming down, feeling Jimmy ride his oversensitive cock and he’s really writhing now, needs to get away from that overwhelming, too-much tight heat. Instead, Jimmy starts to spasm and Stan howls as his stomach and chest are striped with cum.

Jimmy comes down chuckling, languid with post orgasmic looseness while Stan throws an arm over his face, trying to catch his breath. Jimmy finally pulls off and Stan has to deal with the mess of a used condom on his flaccid cock.

“Gross.” He makes a face at the cold, tacky jizz on his dick, tying off the condom and tossing it in the general direction of the trash. “Why am I always covered in jizz and you're not.” He pouts, spitefully grabbing Jimmy’s bandana to wipe at the cum on his chest and crotch. Jimmy just snorts.

“Ya wanna switch it up, be my guest, kitten.” Jimmy stands with a satisfied wince. “Oof!”

“Too much, old man?” Stan teases, tossing the bandana away.

“Don't flatter yourself,  kitten. My bike gives me a better pounding.” Jimmy pops his back and sighs, ignoring Stan’s indignant scowl. “Anyway, we gotta ride tomorrow, so go shower, you look like a cheap porn star.” Jimmy swats at Stan’s thigh.

“And whose fault is that?” Stan grumbles but moves to wash up.

* * *

Running with Jimmy is a trip. He doesn't actually own the strip joint, but he has something worked out with the owner, a cut of whatever profits Jimmy turns over.

Jimmy doesn't do the really hard stuff but he's no saint. He has Stan move a lot of product, a car in a biker gang is more useful than it looks stupid. (Stan pitches a fit when pot spills all over his trunk and his car smells like a whole mess of skunks, but Jimmy calms him down with a joint or three and a trip to a waffle joint. And a blow job.)

Stan actually starts to put down some roots, gets enough cash to rent a motel room for a couple of weeks, makes friends with the strippers and a few regulars. Stan even helps out at the bar or acts as a backup bouncer. It feels weird doing an honest job, but the Lonely Cactus is seedy enough to take the edge off.

Jimmy’s gang is less an organized group and more a bunch of drifters doing favors for each other. They have odd names, too. Tom Coyote. Tammy Hawk. Darlene Spider. Stan knows better than to ask.

Jimmy doesn’t have a house or anything like that, but he has a room in the back of house that he let’s Stan crash in; they don’t even have to fuck. Sometimes they just smoke a dubbie and shoot the shit.

Jimmy’s got Stan’s hand in his lap, rubbing a thumb over the soulmate mark. Stan is drunk and high and feels just a little horny.

“Didn’t work out with sixer here, huh?” Jimmy says and Stan’s easy mood evaporates, leaving the disjointedness of inebriation.

“Don’t fuckin’ call ‘im that,” he snarls before he can think better of it. Jimmy makes a soothing sound.

“Hey, don’t mean anything by it. Just curious.” And Jimmy hasn’t let go, still soothing his thumb over the soft, scarred wrist. Stan slumps inward; he knows Jimmy and Jimmy is an asshole but he isn’t a dick.

“...You could say that. Didn’t work out.” Stan finds the bottle of whiskey they’ve been working on and chugs. When he puts it down Jimmy is giving him an inscrutable look. He reaches one of those huge, calloused hands out, grabs Stan gently by the chin and forces eye contact.

“Tell me about it, kitten.” He murmurs and Stan feels the misery pound down on his shoulders like a car compactor and tears well up. He wrenches his head away, scrubs at his eyes roughly, chuckling wetly and darkly.

“It’s pretty fucked up, Jimmy.” Stan finally raises his head to look at Jimmy again. “You think you can handle it?”

“Kid, I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe,” Jimmy says and Stan’s ugly smirk fades into a frown. He believes Jimmy.

“Yeah, well. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” Stan offers. When Jimmy adds nothing, Stan continues, soft and low. “...he’s my brother.” He braces for the outrage, the disgust. He gets a long, low whistle.

“Hell, kitten, you don’t do nothin’ by halves, huh?” Jimmy says then stretches his arms above his head and leans back. Stan gives him an incredulous stare.

“You ain’t disgusted?” Stan asks, uncurling--he hadn’t noticed balling up in the first place. Jimmy laughs.

“Nah, kitten. Like I said, I seen some things, though,” he looks at Stan and those gray eyes seem piercing like a bullet. “I wanna know what kind o’ idiot you’d fall for that would be even stupider to ditch ya.” Jimmy says with a yellow smirk and Stan find himself laughing, and laughing until tears are streaming down his face and he can’t breath. He collapses into Jimmy’s lap, laughing until the hiccuping breaths become sobs and Stan really cries about everything for the first time in years. Jimmy just pats his shoulder, runs nicotine-stained nails over his scalp.

“He’s so smart,” Stan starts between watery gasps. “He’s so smart but an idiot. Couldn’t read a room if he had a guide.” Stan’s breaths don’t even out but they get less violent. “We were gonna sail away together, ya know? Just me an’ him. I wasn’t--” Stan stutters again, feels his knees draw up to his chest. “It wasn’t nothing gross, ya know? I just...just wanted to be around him.” Jimmy says nothing, just keeps petting Stan’s hair. “He wasn’t...he had a different mark, ya know? I woulda been okay with that, ya know? I just...” Stan’s voice catches again, fresh tears cresting his eyelids. “I wanted him to be happy.” He confesses to Jimmy, to himself. Stan lays in miserable silence.

“Hell, kitten.” Jimmy scratches at his scalp. “Hell.”

* * *

He won’t say he’s closer with Jimmy after that; Jimmy doesn’t treat him differently at all. Stan still fucks and crashes with him, still moves drugs and questionable packages he never asks about.

* * *

“Pines, you got mail!” Stardust calls from the bar where she’s picking through junk mail and magazines. “It’s not from the cops this time!” She holds what looks like a postcard between her fingers, wiggling it enticingly.

“It a scam?” He asks, slowly making his way over to the bar. Stardust shakes her head, just wiggles the postcard more aggressively.

“I got better things to do, Pines.” She grumbles with a sly smile. Stan shoots back his sleaziest grin.

“Nothin’ better to do than a Pines,” he leers at her and she laughs, smacking his shoulder.  

“Save it for Goldilocks, big boy.” She dismisses him with a shuffle of the mail she’s still sorting. Stan chuckles, turning to walk back to his table, eying the postcard with some bemusement.

Classic, tacky gift shop fair. Pretty, foggy snapshot of a forest with “GRAVITY FALLS” imposed over the image, each letter featuring its own wood scape. The paper is cheap, the postcard itself is creased, as if someone had bought it and then shoved it in a pocket for months. Stan scoffs, lazily turning the card over to see who sent it.

“Please come! - F”

Stan's gut drop out his stomach, all his blood draining out with it. The handwriting is different, frantic and rushed, but he knows his brother’s hand. He rereads the two words once, twice, five more times. He checks the address--Oregon was quite a drive, he’d have to move soon.

“Pines, you alright?” Someone calls out to him, maybe Stardust, maybe anyone else.

“I have to go!” He snaps over his shoulder, already rushing to Jimmy’s backroom, stumbling over a toppled chair. He hears his name again, but he has no time to waste, shoving the postcard into his pocket.

He digs a duffel bag from one corner of the room; it smells like weed and booze, but it’ll have to do. He starts to shove all the warm, clean clothes he can find into the bag.

“Mind tellin’ me what’s got you spooked, kitten?” Stan chances a glance over his shoulder and see’s Jimmy leaning, nonchalant and relaxed against the door frame. Stan pulls the postcard out and wordlessly holds it out to Jimmy. Jimmy cocks a brow, but takes the card, reading the front and then the back. Stan watches him anxiously, itching to have the card back in his hands. Jimmy looks at the card, then Stan. “Guessing this is from yer Sixer, huh?” Jimmy waves the card in emphasis, Stan eyes wildly watching it before snatching it back.

“Don’t call him that.” He grumbles, carefully smoothing out the postcard. Jimmy sighs.

“Guy hasn’t talked to you in years.”

“So?” Stan snaps, putting the card back into his pocket, more carefully this time, and resuming his packing at a less frantic pace.

“Just sayin’ that before ya rush off half cocked why don’t ya give him a call?” Jimmy moves into the room.

“Don’t got his number, jackass.” Stan mutters, finding three mismatched socks and shoving them in the bag.

“Yeah, but you know how to get it, dontcha?” Jimmy grabs the duffel bag, forcing Stan to look up at him. Jimmy looks unusually serious, his shoulders are tense, mouth curled in a frown. Stan swallows, feels cornered.

“Yeah.”

There’d been a couple of drunken nights when Jimmy would wrestle a phone from Stan’s grasp, doing everything in his power to make sure Stan’s wasted ass didn’t call up his family in the middle of the night in a broken mess. Stan always pitched a fit, screaming or crying or just puking and passing out.

Jimmy takes the duffel bag and tosses it to the side.

“You still got the number?” He asks, pointlessly, because Stan could never forget his own phone number--or what was his phone number. Stan mumbles an affirmative and feels as if he’s being marched to his death, Jimmy’s hand on one shoulder, guiding him to the office behind the bar. Margo, the boss, is there, looking over papers, ridiculous glasses perched on her nose. She doesn’t look like the type to own a strip joint that’s a front for illicit smuggling, but she’s damn good at what she does. She looks at Jimmy’s serious but cocky posture and Stan’s miserable slouch.

“You ain’t fuckin’ in my office,” she warns, already standing.

“Can it, woman, kitten’s gotta make a phone call.” Jimmy says, gruff and fond, getting a punch to the shoulder for his trouble.

“Watch yer mouth, Snakes.” She warns, but leaves the two of them alone in the office, even closing the door behind her.

They stand in silence.

“Maybe they aren't home.” He says, staring at the phone.

“Kitten.”

“The number could have changed. Yeah, maybe they got that college money and moved up in the world, ya know?” Stan rubs absently at his wrist, the scarred one. He hears Jimmy huff, feels him roll his eyes. Stan jumps when a heavy hand pats his shoulder and squeezes.

“It'll be fine, kitten.” Jimmy picks up the phone and pushes it into Stan’s shaking hands. Stan stares at the numbers on the dial pad. He carefully pecks in the number he knows by heart.

“Margo ain't gonna like the phone bill.” Stan tries with a tight smile that slips away as the dial tone sounds. It should still be early, Pops should be in the pawnshop which means Ma should be the one to pick up.

“Pines residence.” Stan hears a small, high voice answer. He says nothing, stunned. “Hello? I'm gonna hang up.” The voice warns.

“No! No, no. I'm, uh, I'm sorry.” Stan stutters over his words, beyond thrown by this small, young voice.

“Are ya looking for the hotline, mister?” The little voice asks, just a bit suspicious.

“Uh, no. Is...is Mrs. Pines there?” It feels so strange to call his Ma by something so formal.

“Who's askin’?” And Stan feels a bit of misplaced, familial pride at that Jersey suspicion.

“Her son.” He says. The kid on the other end grumbles about “mysterious men” and Stan can hear hollering.

“Pipe down, ain't raised ya to holler like an alley cat!” Stan’s heart trips over his chest, hearing his Ma's voice for the first time in nearly a decade. “Stanford Filbrick Pines, ya better have a damn good reason to be calling after all this time. Without so much as a letter!” Stan let's his Ma's scolding tone wash over him. “Stanford? Stanford, you answer your mother.” Stan takes a deep shaky breath.

“...Hi, Ma.” And he sounds weak, like he's been crying or chain smoking for three hours straight. He hears Ma gasp.

“Stanford, what happened, are you alright? You ain't sick are ya?” Stan feels his face pinch.

“No, Ma, its--” He's cut off by another gasp.

“Stanley.” She breathes, fragile. “Baby?” She whispers, tentative and hopeful. Stan’s mortified to feel tears run down his cheeks. He hears the door click open and shut behind him; he knows Jimmy has left to give him some privacy.

“Yeah...it’s me, Ma.” Ma gasps, a choked off little sound, then.

“You selfish, foolish little boy! Worse than your brother, I tell ya, not one call! Nothing in ten years; I thought you was dead!”

“Nah, still kickin’, Ma.”

“Ya won’t be when I get my hands on ya!” Ma promises, teary and furious and Stan chuckles wetly then frowns.

“Actually, Ma, I...I need a favor.” He says hesitantly, biting his lip when he hears his Ma sigh.

“‘Course ya do. Is it money?” She sounds tired and Stan feels wretched, choking up again.

“No, Ma, no--I’m. I’m good. I...I need Ford’s number.” He stumbles, gets nervous and near frantic when the line goes silent. “Ma? Ma, you still there?”

“Baby, you think that’s a good idea?” She asks cautiously. Stan swallows, a little indignant but mostly hurt.

“...I got a postcard from him, Ma. He wants to see me.” And it hits him that his brother wants to see him, talk to him, maybe even needs him.

“He sent you a _postcard_ but he can’t spare a call for his own _mother_?” And she’s angry again and that’s safe territory.

“Ma, _Ma_.” He tries to get her attention and grins when he hears her swear under her breath. Yeah, Ford was in deep shit.

“That boy, I swear, always wrapped up in his mysteries. At least when you were around he’d come down from the clouds once and awhile.” She interrupts herself with a small intake of breath. Stan’s feels his face spasm, tears threatening his already sore eyes. “Baby, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have--”

“No, it’s okay, Ma.” And, hell, Ma’s crying.

“No, baby, it’s not, I shoulda did something and your father was--”

“Shh, Ma, it’s okay; it’s okay.” He soothes. Ma takes deep breaths to calm herself.

“Ya really want that number, baby?” She asks and Stan nods, then answers:

“Yeah, Ma. He needs me.” And Ma gives him the number and he scrambles to write it down on an old billing receipt. “Thanks, Ma.”

“...I guess ya gotta call yer brother, huh?” She asks and Stan grimaces.

“He needs me.” Stan offers and it sounds weak.

“I know, baby,” she sighs. “I know. You give him a piece of my mind, Stanley.” She says, voice warm and Stan tries to cling to that warmth.

“I will, Ma,” he promises and they make their goodbyes, Stan promising to call. When the line goes dead he slumps, drained. He goes to the door, cracking it open.

“Ya done?” Jimmy grouses, arms crossed and leaning against the wall. Stan shakes his head.

“Think ya can get me a whiskey?” He asks and Jimmy grunts, rolls his eyes, but shouts at the bartender, striding over for it.

“Ya get one, Pines,” Jimmy warns and Stan nods. Retreating back to the office and staring at the phone, the number. He knocks back the whiskey. Before the burn hits his gut, he dials the number. It rings. And rings. Eventually he’s informed that the number is unavailable. Stan scowls, dials again, anxiety giving way to annoyance. After the fifth attempt, when he’s about ready to give up, the phone clicks and:

“What? What more do you want, Bill?” Ford sounds wrecked, terrified and desperate. Stan’s annoyance melts like snow in a heat wave. “I’m not gonna do it!” Ford shouts.

“Ford!” Stan grips the phone in both hands, shaking. “Ford, it’s me!” Ford stops ranting, breathing hard.

“Oh, God.” He whispers and then there’s a crash, and Stan can hear Ford shouting, things are breaking. “Why? Why him? Leave me alone!”

“Ford? Stanford!” Stan’s screaming into the receiver. “Stanford, come back! What’s happening? Ford!” He hears the noise stop, shuffling.

“Stanley? Stan, if it’s you, please, I need you.” He says in a rush.

“Yeah, yeah.” Stan assures his brother. “Ford, I’m coming, okay? Just hang in there. I’m coming.” Ford chokes.

“Trust no one, Stanley. No one.” Ford says and hangs up. Stan wants to scream at him, call him back, but he doesn’t have time. Instead, he slams the phone down and tears out of the office, upsetting Jimmy.

“Woah, kitten, what--”

“I gotta go, Jimmy!” He shouts behind him, jogging to the room with his duffel bag.

“Easy, kitten, slow down.”

“He’s in trouble, Jimmy! He needs me!” Stan shoves what he can into the bag; calls it good and tries to rush out again to be stopped by a hand on his arm.

“Stanley.” Stan freezes, looks at Jimmy wide eyed. Jimmy’s gaze is focused, sharp and pinning. Stan gulps around a nervousness he isn’t familiar with. “I ain’t gonna stop ya, but I am gonna come with ya. At least part of the way, until I know you ain’t gonna drive yourself into a ditch.” Stan swallows again and nods. “Good. Now gimme a minute to pack a bag. Feel like this is gonna be a long ride.”

* * *

Jimmy leaves him at the border, but makes him take breaks every few hours. They don’t share any long, drawn out goodbyes; Stan’s too jittery to linger and Jimmy needs to get back to the strip joint. He does give Stan a jacket patch, “just in case”, and he’s gone in a cloud of dust that Stan watches disappear in his rear view mirror. Then he looks forward and drives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man."  
> Friedrich Nietzsche


	3. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan finds and looses and finds again.

It takes him an embarrassing two days to get to Oregon and an extra two hours to actually find the right town--no one knows where Gravity Falls is until Stan finds it about an hour out by pure dumb luck. And then the blizzard hits like a kick in the teeth and Stan is delayed another hour trying not to skid off the back country roads.

The town is whitewashed when he gets there but there are still people wandering around like there isn’t a foot or two of snow on the ground. The couple at the general store give him a once over, get twice as suspicious when he asks after Gopher Road, but send him on his way. It’s a miracle he gets even as close as he does, carefully driving until his low riding car gets firmly stuck and refuses to move. He swears a blue streak, struggling with the snow-blocked door. He grumbles, locks his car uselessly and then starts to walk in what he hopes is the right direction.

He’s rewarded half an hour later when a blurry shape appears that manifests into what looks like a Cold War apocalypse military bunker. Stan starts to understand why the townsfolk gave him such odd looks. He finds a gap in the fence with actual barbed wire around it and shimmies through, tearing his coat a little. He curses but pulls his bag through with him. He picks his way carefully to what looks like a rundown shack with boarded up windows.

“Jesus, Poindexter, what happened to you?” He makes his way to the porch, stomping snow from his boots, stalling for time before he meets his brother again for the first time in ten years. He takes a deep breath and then knocks. He's barely on the third knock when the door is flung open and his sore, frozen body stumbles right into a body that smells like vomit and piss. He tries to recoil but he's grabbed by the collar of his jacket and slammed into a wall. Before he can respond he’s got a bright light blinding him, leaving spots in his eyes as he flails uselessly against the assault. He hears a rush of a relieved breath, feels it hot and foul against his face.

“Thank God, it’s you.” And Stan feels a rush of emotions, disgust at his brother’s state, love he can never divorce from Ford, and fear.

“Y-ya expecting someone else, Sixer?” Ford pulls back enough and, fuck, he looks messed up. He’s scruffy and filthy, eyes bloodshot and bruised to hell. There are healing scrapes over his face and what Stan can see of his hands.

“Don’t call me that,” Ford snarls, grabbing Stan’s face and looking into his eyes again. Stan shoves him off; he can’t stand the stench or Ford’s intense, manic gaze.

“Jesus, alright. Way to say hello.” Stan grumbles, straightening himself. Ford scuttles to the still open door, headless of the small snow drift gathering on his welcome mat. He scans the blizzard, all the good it’ll do him, before slamming the door shut and slamming at least three different locks in place.

“Were you followed?” Ford whirls back around, manic look making his face almost comical if Stan didn’t feel that old, old protectiveness coming forward after a decade in the corner.

“Ford, are ya in trouble?” Stan carefully moves forward. Ford gets stiff and looks around, sees one of those hokey plastic skeletons. He rushes over and turns the head. “Ford, what’s goin’ on?”

“You wouldn't believe me, Stanley.” Ford says with a dry, raspy chuckle.

“...Is it drugs?” Stan asks, going through a list of drugs he knows, he’s moved, he’s sampled. Ford lets out a loud laugh that sounds more like a cough.

“Oh, God, Stan, I wish. No. No, we’re wasting time, follow me.” Ford turns and walks away, leaving the front room and Stan hurries to follow him.

“Hey, Ford, slow down, hey--woah.” Stan gapes when Ford pulls a book and the whole bookcase swings open like a damn movie. Ford smiles tightly back at him.

“Follow me. And don’t touch anything.” Stan follows Ford down a dark flight of stairs to an elevator.

“You, ah, got something to hide, S--Ford?” Stan tries, nervous, hugging his gut. Ford chuckles darkly as the elevator shudders to a halt.

“You have no idea.” With that ominous declaration, Ford escorts Stan through a laboratory straight out of the science fiction flicks they’d watched as kids.

“The hell is goin’ on, Ford?”

“This, Stanley, is something beyond your wildest dreams,” Ford says grandly before ushering Stan into a big, cavernous room dominated by a large, inverse triangle with a hole in it. Stan’s mouth goes dry.

“...Holy...Ford, is that?” Stan stares at the hulking machine and at Ford, who is smiling grimly, rubbing at his wrist.

“Yes.” Is all he says before walking over to a desk. “That, Stanley, is an inter-dimensional portal; a doorway between worlds.” He turns, a tattered red book in his hands. “It is my greatest creation.” His face is distant, almost dreamy.

“...Okay, so, your soulmark is...a...what?” Ford frowns, shakes his head.

“It doesn’t matter, Stanley, none of that matters.” Ford walks briskly over to him. “I need you to do something for me, Stanley. I need you.” Ford says and Stan feels his whole body sing with hope.

“Course, Ford, anything.” He promises. Ford nods to himself.

“Good, good. I’ve hidden the other two but I need you to take this journal,” he shoves the book into Stan’s chest. “And get as far away from here as possible--sail to the ends of the earth if you have to, but never come near this place.” Ford rushes, purses his lips and scowls. “Or near me, I think.” Ford is nodding to himself.

Stan doesn’t know what he feels besides a big, loud blankness that rushes like tinnitus into his ears; he’s staring at the journal in his hand, thinks he should feel something more than the distant, aching pain. He wonders how many times a heart can get broken.

“Stanley,” Ford snaps, hand waving in front of his face. Stan shakes his head, coming back to himself and everything hits him at once and to his surprise, he chuckles. “Stanley?” Ford’s reaching for the flashlight again.

“Ford, I got a half tank of gas and a blizzard; I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He says, feeling a sneer come on.

“...I can give you money, Stanley--” Ford grouses.

“I don’t need yer fuckin’ money, Stanford!” Stan snarls. Ford scoffs.

“You just admitted as much, you knucklehead!” Ford snaps back.

“I don’t need yer money cause I ain’t doing your dirty work, Ford!” Stan throws the journal to the ground and kicks it away, a few loose pages flutter free.

“My research,” Ford dives for it, shoving the pages back into the book. “Be careful, Stanley!” Ford growls from his crouch on the floor. Stan feels something like pity, looking at this filthy, crazed caricature of his brother. He deflates with a disgusted huff.

“If it means that much to ya, Ford, I’ll do it.” He walks over to his brother, Ford shooting him a suspicious look, before standing.

“Good to see you can come to your senses,” he says imperiously, as if he wasn’t just hunching like a feral dog over scraps. Stan bites back a retort.

“Just gimme the damn book, Ford.” Stan holds out his hand and Ford hesitantly hands the journal over. Stan rolls the tension from his shoulder. Ford sighs, heavy and bitter.

“I’m sorry it had to be this way, Stanley, but it’s for the best.” Ford says, arms crossed behind his back, staring at the manifestation of his soulmark.

“Yeah, me, too, Ford.” Stan mutters, turning to leave, to get out of this place and away from his ass of a brother.

“Oh, I know you do.” Ford says and Stan freezes, rage returning.

“...The hell is that supposed to mean?” He growls, turning to face his brother. Ford frowns over his shoulder at him.

“Don't play stupid, Stanley. If anyone knows the damage these damn soulmarks can do, it’s you.” Ford says, then stares dramatically at the machine again. “I was destined to create this abomination just as you were destined to do this last worthwhile thing for me.”

“The fuck is wrong with you!?” Stan shouts, every ounce of hurt he’s ever felt in the last ten years congeals and coalesce into a hideous amalgamation of rage. Ford has the gall to turn, surprised. “You ruined my life, you bastard! I come here to try an’ help your ungrateful ass and you gotta fuckin’ drag me through shit?”

“Stanley, calm down!”

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up, Ford!” Stan advances on his brother. “You ruined my life.” Stan snarls, low, furious, dangerous. Ford scowls back.

“You're sick, Stan! It’s not my fault!” He snaps and Stan throws the book to the side, lunging at his brother, ready to take out a decade’s worth of fury. Ford surprises him by giving just as good, slashing jagged, broken nails across his eyes, making Stan stumble back with a curse.

“Still fighting like a fuckin’ pussy, huh?” Stan snaps, squinting in time to see Ford fling a wild, clumsy fist into his face.

“You couldn’t just listen to me!” Ford shouts, shoving Stan, grunting when Stan takes the opening and lands a fist to the gut.

“You couldn’t just be a decent brother!” Stan grab’s Ford’s shoulders and brings a knee into his stomach. Ford wretches, dry heaves, spitting bile on Stan’s now filthy jacket.

“Ugh!” Stan shoves him away, wiping at the stain with a sleeve. He’s promptly tackled by Ford, shoved through a doorway and into a control room. Stan rears back and feels his head connect to Ford’s, relishes Ford’s pained shout. He spins around to tackle Ford but gets a kick in the chest that winds him and sends him careening backward--

Into the most painful thing he’s ever felt. He screams, feels like razors are digging into his skin; he can’t breathe and suddenly Ford’s foot is gone and Stan hunches forward, whimpering, hand flying to his shoulder. He smells something foul and burning, wonders if he’s burned his jacket, if that will make it too cold too wear.

“Shit, Stanley, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” Stan glares up at his brother, scrambling to stand, to get closer. Stan snarls and he’s never sympathized with a wounded, cornered animal so much in his life. He feels ready to tear something apart with his teeth. Instead, he surges to his feet.

“You.” He rumbles, gasps, and then snarls. Ford backs up, hands raised.

“Stan, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“You ruin my life.” He growls. “You fuckin’ burn me.” Ford is still backing up but his face is losing that guilt and becoming indignant. “You want me outta your life, Ford? Fine. You’ll never have to see me again!” And he shoves his brother as hard as he can. Ford grunts when he lands on a switch and then everything goes to shit when the whole damn room lights up.

“Stan, get back!” Ford yells, trying to stand but tangles in some wires.

“Ford, what’s happening?” The huge machine starts to hum and then a bright, blue light starts to swirls faster and faster until everything in the room that isn’t bolted down starts spinning and floating, Stan scrambling to hold on to the knocked switch. Ford is screaming.

“Stanley, help me!” Stan looks up to see Ford suspended, being drawn into the machine.

“Ford! Ford, what do I do?”

“The journal, Stanley! You have to--” but he’s gone. The moment Ford disappears the machine shuts down like a satisfied cat. Stan collapses to the ground with gravity restored. Stunned.

Then he starts screaming and doesn’t stop until the tears choke him out.

 

He sits in numb shock for a long time before the need to eat and piss force him to move. He looks through the rooms in the basement, finds some moldy bread and a filthy wet room with a shower head, a drain, and a toilet. There are stains that look uncomfortably like blood and Stan spares a guilty moment to wonder what happened to his brother before Stan showed up to ruin his life.

Stan tries to puzzle out how the hell the machine works, sorting through his brother’s fanciful ramblings. He’s pretty sure his brother went off the deep end years ago until he’s fighting a small mob of red hatted men for the last can of brown meat.

“You can’t even use a can opener!”

Then he tears through the book again and again, pulling out anything in the shack that looks even remotely helpful. He has physics books and textbooks on mathematics. None of it makes sense to him but he tries.

He’s forced to go into town when the snow finally melts enough that he can safely drive his car. He’s at the check out of the literal Ma and Pop store when he realizes he’s broke. He pulls one last con; one last attempt to squeeze blood out of the stone heart of his fucked up universe. Somehow, it works.

A few weeks later he has the Murder Hut established and cash flowing in enough to cover the mortgage and ridiculous electricity bills.

A few months later he renames it the Mystery Shack after numerous complaints.

 

The depression waits a few polite years before settling in like a nest of termites, eating away at his showman smile, making it harder and harder to move; to eat anything more complicated canned food. He finds it harder to focus on the portal--it’s a fucking portal, a sci-fi portal. He drifts more, finds himself head first in the textbooks and late to open tours. Every cat nap and lost second of profit just makes him feel worse.

“You are sleeping because you do not care.” Has him chugging coffee until he vomits.

“You can’t focus because you are too stupid, you have always been stupid.” And Stan slams his head into the textbooks until he’s dizzy.

“You aren’t eating because you know you don’t deserve it.” And Stan chokes down another cold, slimy spoonful of off brand, expired chicken noodle soup.

“He is better off without a sick pervert like you.” And those days Stan threads his fingers through his hair and tries not to cry; tries to push down all of his sharp, too-much feelings because he is a goddamned adult and won’t cry because a voice in his head is saying mean things about him.

The worst comes when he’s staring at his wrist, running a thumb up and down the scar over the six-fingered hand.

“They never should have found you.”

Those days Stan drives into town in a daze, spends way too much money on cheap liquor (“of course this is what you do instead of saving your brother”) and drives back to get drunk off his ass and scream at the portal, at Ford. He collapses to the floor, promising himself: “just until Ford’s back; just until Ford’s back.”

Eventually he goes to the doctor for a bad electrical burn he can’t treat himself and the old scar on his arm has them referring him to someone else and they prescribe him meds that he refuses to waste money on. The doctor glowers at him, but makes him a deal: “give it two months. If it doesn’t change anything, I’ll refund you completely.” Stan accepts, fully planning to bluff the numbers.

Problem is, the voice in his head gets quieter and quieter until he doesn’t feel like he’s fighting a battle to breathe. He’s ashamed to follow up with the doctor and admit that he might need the medication. The doctor is proud of him, but it tastes hollow and ashy.

Stan hates the pills he takes everyday to make his brain behave. He just remembers Ford telling him how sick his is.

The pills don’t fix his mark, though. Sixer fingers still brand him something beyond fixing.

A decade passes without Ford coming back. Another passes, too. Stan doesn’t lose hope, but attempting to fix the portal, giving tours, it all becomes habit. A week will go by before Stan remembers why he’s doing this at all. When he remembers, he drinks, damn the warning labels on the orange bottles.

 

His handyman is a failure, the boy is all legs and nervous sweat. Kid couldn’t sort a screwdriver from a wrench. Stan’s sick of the acne-marked face, the sparse, ugly upper lip hair. Mostly, Stan is just frustrated. He kicks the kid to the curb, figures the kid’ll do better somewhere else anyway. He sees a gumdrop of a kid with a screwdriver and figures that’s a sign if he ever saw one.

“Hey, can you fix a golf cart?” He asks, doesn’t care, grabs the first shirt he can. The green, question mark t-shirt dwarfs the kid. “You’re hired, one size fits all.” He hurries on to his tour group, ready to charm when a squeal cuts the air and Stan’s worried Gompers got stuck in a gnome trap again. Instead, the kid is screaming and jumping.

“Look, look! Dudes! I gotta--I gotta mark!” The kids is screaming and the tour group is rushing over, eager to dote on the kid and witness this little miracle. Stan grumbles and shoves them aside. The kid has his plump wrist grasped in the wrist of some tourist, displaying a bold question mark. Stan almost feels bad about his predatory smirk.

“Just another day at the Mystery Shack, folks!” He cries, scooping the kid into a one-armed hug. “A Mini-Mystery to go with a Mr. Mystery!” He says with a wink. The tour group coos and snaps flashing pictures Stan will charge them for later. When he looks down as the little dough ball, the kid has stars in his eyes.

The kid, Soos, sticks around after that and never seems to leave.

 

Shermie calls that same summer, telling Stan he has a grand niece and nephew. It was a hard birth, so the kids and the mother are still in the hospital when Stan closes the Shack and tears ass out of Oregon to California, out gunning two cop chases and making it in record time.

The kids are in the NICU and he can’t see them yet. He’s the antsiest one in the room and sent to the cafeteria to grab something to eat with the new father. They’re both a mess, watching over-priced snacks twirl and drop from the vending machines and barely tasting them. They both scrub at their hands viciously, trying to become completely sterile with cheap hand soap, just in case.

By the time Shermie escorts them back to the room, the mother is nursing the new babies and Stan can’t even move, just watching the twins. Shermie puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I wish Stanley could be here.” He says, like he knows a secret and Stan tries so hard not to break down. Shermie notices anyway, squeezes his shoulders. One of the babes sighs and mewls.

“Sherms...” he says, reverent. Shermie chuckles.

“Do you wanna hold ‘em?” Shermie asks.

“Can I?” Stan breathes, carefully making his way over to the two precious bundles. He has them both nestled carefully in his arms, just staring, love-struck at the two babies.

The only thing that pries him from the kids is the announcement of Ma Pines. He hightails it outta there before anyone can stop him. When he gets back to Oregon he has a nasty message waiting for him on his phone. He replays it over and over again to hear his Ma’s voice.

He keeps in touch with Shermie, badgers him every year to have the kids come visit and every year he’s countered with an invitation to visit the kids in California with the rest of the family. Stan always has to bite his tongue until he can honestly say he can’t make it, “Summer’s too busy for the Shack, what a shame!” Each summer he gets another message from Ma. He adds it to his collection. On hopeless nights he plays them and thinks of the day Stanford will finally get to hear them.

The twins finally come to visit and Stan realizes he is not ready for two rambunctious, twelve-year-olds to go poking around a place as enticing as the “Mystery Shack”. He tries to be gruff, to be hard, to channel as much about paternal guidance as he can from his own childhood. Especially to the soft, intelligent, paranoid Dipper. He’s like a kick to the jaw; like a poignant fusion of that young, gentle Ford so intent on mysteries and that older, filthy, dangerous Ford. Dipper feels like the precipice between destinies and Stan does his best to make him tough enough to stand up to anything that might take him down.

In the end, it just drives Dipper away. Stan doesn’t know why he’s surprised.

 

“Please, Mabel!” Stan begs, pinned by pipes, old man limbs aching.

“Don’t trust him, Mabel!” Dipper screams, face furious.

“Mabel, please!” He begs, for the first time in a long time, he begs. “I’m not a bad guy, Mabel, you gotta believe me!” He’s almost crying, Ford is so close. He could get Ford back, apologize, make it alright. Mabel is crying, tears caught in the flux, floating around her head like crystals, catching the light.

“Grunkle Stan!” She cries, and Stan doesn’t know if it’s a plea, accusation, declaration. “Don’t be a liar.” She says and lets go, lets go of the button that could have damned Ford and Stan is thrashing in earnest while Dipper rages.

When the portal finally bursts like a pimple, Stan is loosed and falls to the floor with the kids and Soos. He stays there, stunned, joints screaming, head pounding, chest reminding him that he has a predisposition to heart failure. When he looks up he sees the silhouette of a man.

“Ford.” He breathes, hopeful, hopeless. The kids are groaning around him but he can’t pay them any heed, not when his brother is so close. He scrambles to his feet.

“Grunkle Stan--”

“Ford!” Stan calls, rushing forward. The figure startles and punches him in the gut without hesitation. He stumbles back, doubles over, wheezing.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel rushes over and the figure takes a step back at this small, aggressive human, hugging her great uncle.

“Mabel-- _ hck _ \--sweetie, it’s okay.” He wheezes.

“Grunkle Stan, what’s going on?” He sees Dipper edging closer. Stan tries to look up at Ford, whose taken his goggles off, pulled his scarf down.

“Wow, dude, mystery man looks just like you, dawg.” Soos adds and Stan tries to laugh.

“He’s my brother.” Stan says, tries to smile weakly at the wizened, scowling visage of his brother. He delicately straightens, Mabel practically grafted to one leg and Dipper standing cautiously to one side. “Welcome home.” Stan offers, weakly. Ford is still standing in stoney silence.

“Wait...Grunkle Stan...is this...” Dipper gasps and then makes an unholy noise. “Is this the author of the journals?” That seems to snap Ford out of whatever gripped him.

“You’ve read my journals?” He glares at Stan and Stan frowns.

“I’ve lived them!” Dipper exclaims, bouncing on his toes. “Oh my gosh, the author! Stan you never said you knew the author!” Dipper looks at him, face disturbingly between a glare and complete rapture.

“Stanley.” Ford starts and Mabel interrupts.

“Hey, woah, wrong guy, mister!” She says. “This is Stanford.” And Ford looks murderous.

“Stanley,” he says again, ignoring Mabel’s “hey!” “What have you done?” Stan ignores the warning.

“Uh, saved you. A thank you might be nice.” He grouses. Ford snarls, frightening the kids and Soos.

“Thank you!?” Ford stalks forward. “For endangering the universe? For ignoring my warnings? A thank you!?” Ford is roaring and soulmate or not, Stan puts himself between the threat and the kids.

“Hey, watch it! I don’t care what universe you been in, you don’t scream in front of my kids!” Stan threatens, shaking. Ford stops, takes a visible moment to look around.

Then the alarm sounds.

It’s Dipper’s idea to use the memory gun. Ford lies, wears authority like a birthright, and Stan feels a little cheap. Between the two of them, they get a censored version of the story out. Stan got kicked out for “reasons”. Stan drifted a while before settling into a “good, upstanding job.” Ford snorts derisively and Stan is starting to get the idea that his brother might still be an asshole.

Ford explains his adventures in Gravity Falls. In other dimensions. The kids are absolutely enraptured and Stan is, too.

Eventually, Stan shoos the kids upstairs and sends Soos home. They all complain but Stan is firm and they eventually disperse with grumbles and yawns, leaving just Stan and his brother. It's awkward, Ford still looks pissed and Stan is nauseated with emotion. Eventually Ford sighs.

“You shouldn't have opened the portal, Stan.” He say, weary, sounding like a tired old man. Stan scoffs.

“I’d do it again, ya know that.” Ford huffs and surprises Stan with a small smile.

“I'm aware.” He gives Stan a rueful look, almost sad. “You still shouldn't have.” Stan rolls his eyes. Ford gives him a once over, smile slipping. “You look like dad.” He says and Stan’s mood instantly sours.

“Come on, Ford, don't say that.” Ford shrugs.

“Stanley, this Mystery Shack business.” Ford starts and then clears his throat. “I want my life back.” Stan gives him a bemused smile.

“Nobody's stoppin’ ya, Ford.” Stan sweeps out a hand, as if gesturing to all of the nothing standing in Ford’s way. Ford grumbles, runs a six fingered hand through his salt and pepper hair.

“No, Stanley, I want--I need my name back. I need my house back and my name back and you need to leave.” Ford finally looks him in the eye. Stony, resolute.

Stan discovers that his heart can break a third time.

“Ya can't be serious,” Stan says gruffly, swallowing passed the lump trying to choke him.

“Very serious,” Ford says with a grimace.

“Ford, this. This is my life.” He says, staring openly at his brother, helpless against the hurt pinching his face. Ford looks away.

“I'm sorry, Stan. But you can't,” Ford's face twists in disgust. “You can't keep riding my coattails.” He says finally.

“Riding your coattails.” Stan mimics darkly. Ford crosses his arms behind his back, turning to face Stan.

“This whole shack business, everything you've done in thirty years has been under my name.” Ford starts with a hiss growing to an angry rumble. “Couldn't you do any of that as yourself?” And Stan grits his teeth, because, no, he couldn't. He's made too many mistakes.

“Deed was under your name, Ford.” He tries, it's a valid excuse but he knows it's weak.

“And you couldn't impersonate me long enough to sign it over to yourself? You certainly did fine for the past thirty years!” Ford is almost shouting and Stan worries that the kids will hear. “Well?” Ford snaps.

“...I promised Ma you'd call her.” He says, low and gruff, remembering pulling his head out of a bottle long enough to get chewed out by his mother. Ford's stunned into silence and then makes a noise of disgust.

“You honestly expect that paltry excuse to make up for everything?” Stan shrugs.

“I promised her I'd help ya, Ford. I couldn't call her up to say I killed ya.”

“Stanley, you didn't--”

“Ford, it's late, okay? I'm an old man.” Stan rubs the back of his neck and smirks at himself. Ford scoffs again. Stan turns to walk to his room, then pauses. “...Til the end of the summer, Ford. Gimme until then. Then I'll go.” He turns to look at his brother. Ford's hunched, arms crossed. Defensive. He looks at Stan and nods.

“End of summer.”

 

Stan had hoped that he and Ford could make up over the summer, but between the casual use of actual mind control and trying to coerce Dipper into abandoning his sister to be a sci-fi apprentice, Stan realizes that no matter how much he loves his brother, the guy might be the most insensitive and detached jackass on earth.

Then the apocalypse hits.

Things start growing teeth that should have never had a mouth to begin with, people start turning to stone, Gompers grows to the size of a house.

And Ford disappears and the kids are gone and Stan tries not to kick himself senseless.

Because he’s Stanley-fucking-Pines he can’t cool off long enough to hold his brother’s hand, not with that six fingered mark peeking out from his sleeve, taunting him. Instead of stopping the giant, raging triangle, he’s slammed into a cage with his brother, screaming at the kids who bravely and foolishly taunt Bill into following them.

It’s Stan’s idea to trade places. He knows his head isn’t good for much and, hell, “Stan Pines is already dead, Ford, ain’t like nobody’s gonna really miss me.” Stan ignores the painful tremble of Ford’s face at that and just starts to unbutton his jacket, his pants. He hesitates over his dress shirt, but, hell, he’s gonna be a good-as-deadman soon. He strips it off, leaves the girdle because Ford is a lot more trim than he is. He spares a glance at his pale wrist, the ugly scar he hides.

“Well, here ya go, Ford! The Mr. Mystery kit.” His smile is a tight parody of mirth as he holds out his clothes, shivering in the chilled air of the elevated Fearamid. He stumbles over his bravado when he sees his brother standing, stripped to his boxers and an undershirt, faint scars peppering his body, thick arm and leg hair raised against the cold. Ford looks nervous, unsure. “Hey, Ford, it’ll be okay.” Stan murmurs, soothing and Ford just huffs a dry, cold laugh.

“Of course.” He says and holds out his carefully folded clothes. Stan smirks and then freezes.

“Ford…?” He can’t ask, can’t  _ breathe _ .

“I’m sorry.” Is all Ford says as Stan stares at the space where a triangle used to be and sees instead a funny little fish chasing a circle. Stan’s chest tightens, squeezes hard enough that he’s sure he’ll die before Bill ever gets a hand on him.

“Ford...” He takes another, too shallow breath. “How long?” He croaks. Ford shakes his head.

“We don’t have time.” Ford says and pushes his sweater, pants, trench coat at Stan. Before Stan can put them one, Ford grabs Stan’s scarred wrist, face breaking as he takes in the severity of the scars.

“Why?” Ford asks and Stan wants to be petty and tell him that they don’t have time. Instead, he gently pulls his hand free and grabs the maroon sweater.

“I thought I could come back.” He answers, hiding his eyes from whatever face Ford might make by pulling the sweater over his head. When he emerges, Ford’s face is resolute, Stan's dress shirt unbuttoned, jacket askew. “Ford, lemme help ya--” Stan moves forward and is stopped when Ford grabs his face and kisses him, roughly, poorly; a mash of two old, chapped lips without skill. Ford draws back, pink faced and nervous. Stan tries to feel if he’s broken skin.

“I’m sorry,” Ford says again, more timid and immediate. Stan licks his lips, shivers when Ford tracks the movement.

“We don’t have time,” Stan says, tremulous and wet, hating himself. Ford grimaces and nods. Pulls back with a gentle caress of Stan’s jaw. They dress quickly, unable to do more than steal glances at each other. When the tension grows too great Stan says, with a flourish:

“Relax. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s pretending to be Stanford Pines!”

The demon comes in, children in either hand and Stan nearly wets himself in terror. Instead, he pitches his voice to be smoother and lures Bill in, promising access to his mind, pulling his greatest con to date. The gloating triangle accepts and Stan feels the satisfaction of seeing a being of infinite knowledge beg at his feet before--

He wakes up in a wooded clearing. The air is warm, almost muggy with lingering humidity. There are large, mature trees around him and worn grass beneath him. He blinks as if he has recently stared into a bright light, but there are no spots in his vision. He must be tired, he rationalizes. He is still blinking lazily when a small, warm body rushes into him.

“Grunkle Stan, you did it! You’re amazing!” The little girl squeaks at him and he tries to pull back but the young body is stuck to his like a burr.

“Oh, uh, hey. Kiddo. Are you, uh, you okay?” He asks, worried for this child who would hug a stranger and yet nervous. He pats her awkwardly. “Where are your parents?” He asks. The girl looks up at him, wounded and shocked. He feels awful but doesn’t know why.

“Grunkle Stan?” She asks and he looks over his shoulder.

“Hey, pumpkin, I think you have the wrong guy,” he offers gently but that makes it worse, her bright eyes are starting to leak.

“Mabel, no.” A little boy he hadn’t noticed pulls at the girl’s sleeve. “Mabel.” He says and the girl falls back and starts crying into the kid’s vest. He feels bad, wants to reach out and comfort these kids but he thinks they are crying because of him.

“H-hey, don’t cry. I’m sorry.” He says, the apology feels natural on his tongue. “I’m sorry.” He says again. The two kids start crying harder. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know where he is.

“He’s gone, kids.” A deep voice says and Stan looks up enough to see a handsome, elderly man frowning down at him with red, wet eyes.

“Are you missing someone?” He asks, rubs the back of his neck. “Can I help you look for him?” The man stumbles to him and kneels, getting on eye level.

“I know you don’t understand, Stanley, but you did it.” The man cups his cheek; he feels heat rise to his face but he doesn’t pull away. “You’re a hero.” The man whispers, hugs him tightly. He gently pats the man’s back.

“Uh, you got the wrong guy, buddy, but, uh.” He looks around. “Thanks?” The man hugs him harder before standing, clearing his throat.

“Kids, could you gives us a moment?” The man says and the kids miserably walk out of sight, leaning into each other as if they’ll collapse without the support. He smiles as he watches them go.

“Nice kids. They yours?” He finally stands, his legs a bit unsteady and joints aching. The man stares at him, wounded.

“...Not really.” He says. “This may seem strange, but you’re actually wearing my clothes.”

“Oh!” He looks down at himself. The clothes he's wearing don't really fit him.

“I would like them back,” the man continues, cheeks pinking as he looks into the trees.

“Yeah, this sweater itches.” He nods and starts stripping. The man startles. “You okay, mister?”

“...Stanford.” The man says. “Call me Ford.” He nods.

“Alright, Ford.” He drops the sweater and jacket to the ground, frowns at the girdle around his stomach. “Huh.” So that’s why he felt weird. “What’s up this this?” Ford snorts, shrugging out of the dirty button up he'd been wearing.

“I have no idea, honestly. You seemed to think it makes you more attractive.” He carefully folds the shirt and lays it over the jacket. He catches sight of Ford’s arms.

“Woah! Nice ink,” he wanders closer, getting a better look at the marks on either of Ford’s wrists. He quickly folds them against his chest. “Hey, didn’t mean nothin’.”

“No, I'm sorry.” Ford sighs and unfolds. He holds out his arms and lets him look his fill.

“Woah,” he breathes. “Hey, this one’s got six fingers! Did you do that on purpose?” He takes in the six fingered mark, the six fingered hands. Ford is stiff under his scrutiny.

“No,” he says with a bitter bark of a laugh.

“Well, it’s cooler than the fish--no offense!” Stan adds hastily. Ford gives him another one of those conflicted, sad looks. Ford looks down at his bare arms and gasps.

“Stan…” One of those six fingered hands gently takes hold of his wrists. “What happened?” He looks down at his wrists, sees the ugly scar over smooth, white skin.

“Oh. Uh, well.” He screws up his face, thinking. “Huh, I don't remember.” Ford shakes his head.

“No, not--” He runs a thumb over both of his wrists. “Stan.”

“You keep calling that,” he says. “I think I’d know if that was my name.”

“Do you remember your name?” Ford asks, still gently rubbing his wrists. He thinks.

“...Suppose it's as good a name as any. Yeah, okay. Call me Stan.”

 

Stan almost throws up when he realizes he forgot the kids. Forgetting Ford? That hurt but it made sense. But the kids, it's a kick in the teeth (and just remembering how broken Soos looked makes him sick all over again).

The twins unveil their new soulmarks at their birthday and it's bittersweet to see Dipper with a pine tree and Mabel with a shooting star. They seem happy and the town gushes over the marks and the little heroes. They deserve all the attention.

Stan takes a moment to look down at his own blank wrists, wonders if this means that his memories and who he is are different; if he's doomed to be incomplete until he finally dies for the third time. Morbidly, he wonders if he'd be allowed to come home now. He's startled by his dark musings, out of place in this colorful, warm atmosphere.

“Stan, I need to talk to you.” Ford says with a broad, warm hand on his shoulder. Stan smiles and lets his brother guide him to a quieter, more private space around the side of the house.

“Oh, mysterious,” Stan smirks, leans against the shack wall. “I like it.” Ford scoffs fondly.

“Alright, knucklehead,” he pulls out a glowing sci-fi gadget like a watch and a bubble. “See these dots? We defeated Bill and got this rifts closed but there was backlash. These dots are anomalies. I need to find them and make sure they aren't a danger to the world.” Stan nods, face twisting into a frown.

“Sounds dangerous.” He says and Ford smiles, reaching into his jacket and pulling out an old, worn photograph.

“That's why I’d like you to come with me.” Stan takes the photograph, sees two young boys red as tomatoes, standing proudly on a wreck of a sailboat.

“Huh,” Stan runs a finger over the boy with five fingers. He smiles ruefully at Ford. “I don't remember this.” Ford's face crumples. “Ah, Sixer, come on. Don't be like that.”

“Of course. Do you want to, though?” Ford asks, eyes large and sincere. Stan makes a show of considering it.

“Well, duh, Poindexter! Like I’d miss out on the adventure of a lifetime!” Ford grins at him, clasps him on the shoulder and guides them back to the party.


	4. Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They aren't healed but they are trying.

Getting everything in order before Stan and Ford set off is a whirlwind of confusion and frustration. Stan’s memory is understandably shoddy, he forgets the code to the safe, which has the deed, which they need to sign over to Soos so the kid can take over the shack while Stan is at sea. Ford demands that Stan gets a full medical check up, the whole nine yards, and enlists the twins and Soos. Mabel cagoules, Dipper runs off frightening statistics, and Soos just cries and gets snot and tears all over Stan’s suit (Ford had been a little vague and rushed and Soos had assumed that Stan was going to a doctor because he was dying).

Eventually, Stan agrees only if Ford does the same.

“Stanley, I have several doctorates; I know I’m healthy.”

“Okay then, you can do my exam and we don’t have to shell out the cash for a quack.”

“...Fine.”

So they both get an uncomfortably thorough exam and Stan is scolded for his hypertension and pre-diabetes and Ford is cautioned about the mild heart arrhythmia the doctor detected and is told to contact a doctor immediately if he suffers any worse symptoms.

The don’t tell the kids, but they do decide to sign power of attorney over to each other.

The boat is the easiest thing to acquire before they realize that neither of them really knows how to pilot or actually live on a boat. Between Stan’s spotty smuggling memories and Ford’s lack of instruction in this dimensions vehicles, they have to sign up for humiliating classes with twenties-somethings and midlife crisisers. Both of them get frustrated enough that they commission Fiddleford for an automated system that could get them out to see until they figured everything out. Ford is willing to pay but Stan haggles with a “savior of the world” discount.

They finally set sail and get spectacularly, celebratory drunk.

 

Stan can’t deny the awkwardness on the Stan-o-War II. (Stan still gets emotional over that name even though the memories associated with the original Stan-o-War are buried or gone.) Ford doesn’t seem to know how to act, either walking around on guilty eggshells or being a frustrated asshole. Stan gets it, his memory is there most days, he even gets some of it back, but sometimes he forgets. He forgets that Ford doesn’t like being called Sixer, he forgets where his glasses are, he sometimes forgets that he’s Stanley Pines.

Ford tries, but even Stan gets disappointed when he can’t tie his shoes.

So Stan runs screaming when he looks down at his fishing pole and sees a sooty, black mark on his arm.

“Ford! Ford, look! Ford!” Stan’s holding his arm like it’s on fire, face splitting in a grin that makes his salt-chapped lips crack unpleasantly. Ford stumbles out of their shared room, glasses askew, hair rumpled, gun in hand.

“Stan!” He shouts, aims.

“Jesus! Sixer, it’s just me, Christ!” Stan hits the deck, arm held tightly to his chest, almost worried the moment he lets it go the new mark will disappear. Stan’s on the floor, realizing that ducking his brother’s unfired shot was not a good idea as his joints scream at him and his muscles grumble.

He groans like the old man he is and feels broad, warm hands pat him down.

“Oh, Stan! Stan, I didn’t hurt you, did I? Stan, are you okay?” Ford is poking and prodding him and Stan lets him stew for just a moment longer before unrolling like a pill bug with a grin.

“Ta dah!” He holds out his arm with a flourish. Ford flinches back, then crowds closer before his eyes grow large behind his glasses.

“Stan! Stan, is that…!” Ford grabs Stan’s other arm.

“Hey, watch it!” Ford frowns down at the wrist in his hands and lets Stan yank it back. “Geez, Ford, not that one!” Stan wiggles the intended, marked wrist. “See?” Ford’s expression pinches as he carefully shifts his attention to the arm Stan is offering.

Stan’s scarred wrist now sports a dark, black mark of a six fingered hand. The mark itself is unfortunate enough to be interrupted by the scars, but Stan is still proud to show off this aspect of his past; this facet of who he is.

“It’s you!” He says, dopier than he’d like, but, it isn’t everyday you get to show of some mystic tattoo. His face falls when Ford just stares, a quiet, sad frown on his face.

“Yes.” He says at last, a thumb gently rubbing the mark and over the scar.

“...I thought you’d be happy.” Stan feels foolish, pushing sixty and letting his brother frown over his arm; his earlier enthusiasm lost. He squirms now, skin starting to feel clammy where Ford is holding it. Ford shakes his head.

“I’m...happy you have this back.” He offers with a weak smile. He releases Stan’s arm and Stan pulls it to his chest, suddenly defensive but not knowing why.

“I get the feeling you didn’t like it the first time around.” He says, curling into himself.

“Do you remember?” Ford asks, sharply and Stan winces.

“...I don’t think I want to.” Stan confesses, finally looking at his wrist, not just the mark, at the scars and sagging skin. Ford sighs and settles next to him.

“I can’t imagine that you would.” He says cryptically. Stan feels the tension in the air settle on the both of them; a heavy, somber mantle.

“Why are we here, Ford?” Stan asks, feeling old. “If there's so much bad blood between us, why are we here? Why are  _ you  _ here?” Ford gives him a wounded look.

“I want to be here, Stan.” Ford says, like it's that easy. Like there isn't a murky soup of dangerous unknowns and forgottens that stretches wider than the ocean they're on.

“Sixer,” Stan starts, catches the aborted twitch. “I remember a lot, well, not a  _ lot _ but I remember  _ enough _ . I know you're my brother, I know I love ya, but the thing is, somethin’ like this will happen,” Stan waggles his wrist, flashing the new mark. “And I think it'll make ya happy, but ya get all mopey instead.” Ford frowns, brows furrowing like disgruntled caterpillars.

“I don't mope.” He says.

“Ya do. But, Ford.” Stan pauses, chewing on his words. “Thing is, I know you're my brother and I know that I love ya, but I don't really know you, huh?” He asks with a tight smile that feels bitter. Ford's wounded caterpillar brows crumple.

“Of course--” Ford catches himself, takes a deep breath. “I don't think I understand.” Stan groans, throwing both hands over his face.

“Okay, well, okay.” He grunts, shifting until he's just a bit straighter.

“Stanley, do you not want to be one the Stan-o-War?” Ford asks, making Stan’s thoughts sputter and derail.

“The hell you talkin’ about?” Stan looks at his brother, puts every ounce of incredulity into his gaze. Ford shifts, nervous.

“You asked why we were here. I thought we were here because we...wanted to be.” Ford looks at the worn floorboards of the boat.

“Hell, Ford, course I wanna be here--”

“Then I don't understand the problem.” Ford huffs. Stan rolls his eyes.

“World’s dumbest genius,” he mutters, then shift’s his old man body around, getting right up into Ford’s space, looking into Ford’s eyes. They’re bloodshot, they usually are, with confusion crinkling the crows feet at the corners. Stan puts a deliberate hand on Ford’s shoulder, bracing himself, and see’s Ford’s face slack in surprise when Stan zeros in on his lips and leans in, too rapid and forceful, lips mashing into Ford’s. Stan grunts, annoyed but insistent, trying to get out everything he’s too dumb to articulate, tries to lick and nip everything he loves about his brother into the idiot’s dry lips; Ford sets hesitant hands against Stan’s shoulder before pushing him off with a wet sound and silk-thin string of spit that snaps like the moment, hanging sloppily against Stan’s chin. Ford is panting as if he actually participated in the make out session Stan tried to initiate.

“Stan.” He breathes, confused and almost hurt. Stan frowns.

“Don’t understand, Poindexter, thought we both wanted this?” He parrots, a mean edge to his voice he didn’t expect; didn’t plan for. Ford stiffens, pushes Stan roughly with a small scowl.

“Stanley,” he growls, stern, withdrawing into that facade of superiority.

“No, really, Ford. You want this. I want this.” Stan pokes Ford in the chest, points back to himself. “What’s the problem?”

“You’re being a child,” Ford says in lieu of an answer, shifting to stand. Stan puts a heavy hand on his leg, not really stilling him but making a point.

“ _ I’m _ being a child?” He hisses, an edge in his voice and a little pressure on Ford’s leg.

“Yes,” Ford snaps, swatting Stan’s hand away like a spider and rolling to stand. Stan follows with a graceless scramble and muffled cursing.

“What’s your problem with me, Ford?” He snarls, rolling his broad shoulders to distract from the creaking in his knees, his spine.

“I don’t have a  _ problem _ with you, Stanley,” Ford crosses his arms, and Stan snorts.

“Yeah? Cause that mark on yer arm,” Stan looks at the wrist tucked safely against Ford’s chest; the one that holds what would be Stan’s mark if he still had one, and then taps his own marked wrist. “And this one? These usually mean you and I should be screwing each others brains out.” Ford gets an interesting pale with pinked cheeks and ears.

“Don’t be so crass--” Ford sputters, eyes wide, shoulders tensed. He looks cornered.

“What’s so crass about  _ soulmates _ , Sixer?” Stan sneers. Ford’s face goes red with fury, arms unfolding to clench at his side. Stan feels himself deflate. “Ya wanted this in the damn pyramid, Ford. What changed?” His eyes aren’t watering, but his lashes feel wet regardless. Ford’s fury crumples and he look down, almost ashamed. “Is it cause you thought I was gonna die? Was it pity?” Ford’s face snaps up, wounded.

“Wha--of course, not!”

“Then why then and not now?” Stan demands but it sounds pitifully like a whine. Ford looks away, down at his boots, then slowly, sadly, Stan.

“You...” He starts, stumbles, clears his throat. “You were...you aren’t.” Ford huffs. “You’re not my Stan yet.”

“...The hell would you know?” Stan’s brain restarts sharply after the hiccup caused by Ford's words.

“Stan,” Ford says, like it’s obvious. Stan just scowls.

“Ford, I got a brain like Swiss cheese and I don’t got a lot of you. And you know what? I think that’s cause you weren’t there in the first place!” Ford startles back, surprised by the sudden outburst.

“Stan, that’s not--”

“Yer acting all tragic, like yer waiting for me ta come back ta ya, but who really waited, huh, Ford?” And Stan remembers; it’s like a bad trip--one moment he’s here in front of his brother and angry, the next there are a hundred different hims falling over each other, layering over top of the other like a bad water mark but not merging, not melding, and he’s falling. He thinks someone is shouting, but a lot of people are shouting. He remembers someone shouting at him when he was a kid on his ass on the concrete; he remembers someone yelling at him, banging on his car window to get his ass moving; yelling at him to “move, Pines, fuck!”; “Stanley, help me!”; “Don’t trust him, Mabel!”; “Grunkle Stan!”

Stan thinks he’s shaking, but someone could be shaking him. He knows he’s retching, can feel his body trying to void whatever poison he ingested to make him trip like this. He feels cold; he aches; he’s tired. He isn’t sure if his eyes are closing or not. He doesn’t even feel the world drop away.

 

Stan doesn't wake up so much as become a living, breathing migraine. He makes a pitiful noise, doesn't even care. His stomach is roiling, his brain is a throbbing mess that wants to escape his body as much as he does.

“Stan?” A low, nervous voice calls, a cool hand touches his forehead. He's embarrassed by the whine that escapes him. “Can you hear me?” Stan whines again, the hand is removed, instead prying open one eyelid and shining a bright light like a razor into Stan’s skull. He shouts, flails, and manages to roll on his side before dry heaving, thick spittle and bitter bile lingering on his tongue. He spits, unseeing, and hears a muttered curse. He moans when a hand settles on his neck and a cool glass in pressed to his lips. He drinks, slowly, his nervous stomach ready to expel anything it doesn't like the look of.

“Stanley?” Christ, it's Ford. Stan pushes down the urge to crawl into a hole and die.

“Whn?” He groans inarticulately. A callused, gentle palm smooths sweaty strands from his forehead, six fingers card through his hair. He moans into the touch, shameless in his near death state.

“Stanley?” Ford asks again, like Stan didn't give him a perfectly respectable answer.

“Wagh.” He says again, doesn’t dare open his eyes. Instead he snuggles his face further into his pillow, away from any other threatening rays of light. He thinks he hears Ford chuckle.

“I’m guessing you’re awake.” He says, fond and indulgent. Stan wants to flip him off but can’t find the energy to move his sore limbs. Instead, he grumbles as insultingly as he can. Ford just laughs softly, still petting Stan’s hair. “You really worried me, Stan.” He starts and Stan groans like he’s dying all over again. “Oh, hush.” Ford swats at him gently, affectionately. Stan grumbles, cracks an eye open.

Ford is sitting next to him. Stan seems to be in a bed, though the pillow smell sour.

“Thish pillo’ shmells like shi’.” He slurs, tries to wiggle away from the offending smell. Ford huffs again. There’s a scraping sound, shuffling, and suddenly his head is being gently held while the warm, foul pillow is being pulled out from under him and a cooler, cleaner one is being slid beneath him.

“Is that better?” Ford asks, one hand still carding gently through his hair. Stan hums, lets himself be cared for. It’s an odd feeling, being so vulnerable with no backup; with nothing up his sleeve. “I need to take care of something. Will you be okay?” Ford asks and Stan grunts, unwilling to surface to the world of the living long enough to truly respond. Ford chuckles again and Stan hears him leave. He waits.

When Stan is sure he’s alone, he carefully opens his eyes. He’s in his bunk on the Stan-o-War II. The blankets are rank with his sweat but the damp holds the heat his feverish body needs nicely, so he snuggles into the filthy covers. The new pillow is quickly warming under his head, but it smells clean and just a little like Ford’s shampoo and aftershave. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, guiltily, before renewing his struggle. He carefully pushes himself up and up until his back is supported against the headboard. He tries to think past the fresh-bruise of his brain.

Instead, he fingers the fabrics of his blanket. He looks at the patterns of the grain in the wood above his head. He hears Ford come back.

“Oh, Stan!” He doesn’t look at Ford, instead staring at his lap. When a hand comes onto his line of vision, he grabs it. “Stan?” Stan brings the hand to his mouth, presses a dry mouth to the knuckles.

“Ford.” He mumbles, turning the limp hand over, seeking out the black mark. He has the six fingered hand under his lips. He smiles against it; Ford indulges him. “Ya think I coulda come home?” He asks, rough lips rasping against the soft, smooth skin of Ford’s wrist. He feels the wrist in his hand pull away, just a bit. “Sorry.”

“Stanley.” He hears Ford start, hesitate. Stan grasps more desperately.

“Ford, can I come home?” He asks. Ford gets stiff like a corpse but then:

“Of course, Stan.” Ford wraps a six fingered hand around one of Stan’s wrists. “Of course.” Stan sighs.

“I miss, Ma. She was always gettin’ on me for not coming home for the holidays. But she's smart, Ford. I could fool her over the phone but she’d never buy that I was you.” Stan wiggled his fingers. “Ya know, first time I met Sherm’s was at his wedding? My own brother. Had to dig out some of your gloves. Told Ma it was a lab accident.” She barely talked to me besides chewing me out.” Stan chuckles. He looks at Ford, eyes crinkling. “We outta see her. Really let her lay into  _ you _ for once.” Ford is smiling bittersweetly at him.

“Might give her a heart attack,” he says and Stan laughs again.

“Nah, old bird is tough as nails.” Stan looks at the ceiling. “Yeah. It'd do her good.” Stan realizes he still has Ford's wrist in his hand. He rubs at it again and feels Ford shiver.

“Stan,” he starts, doesn't finish.

“It was never about sex, ya know.” Stan says, looking at Ford. Ford looks away.

“I know.” He says softly and Stan wants to ask if Ford ever fucked the triangle, but this is the closest they've come to actually talking about this. Stan swallows.

“Ya think ya could kiss me again?” Stan asks and feels like an idiot, knows he's blushing like a virgin. Ford smiles fond and rueful.

“After you brush your teeth.” He says and Stan can't help the bellow of a laugh that drowns out Ford's chuckles.

 

His migraine clears up by evening; he had slept through the night. Ford makes him move, walk from the tiny bunk room to the miniscule galley. He serves a pungent fish soup he swears will help Stan feel better and Stan resigns himself to puking the rest of the night.

The soup isn't pleasant, too salty with an aftertaste like seaweed. He thanks Ford anyway, especially when Ford pours them both a generous measure of whiskey. They sit in a not uncomfortable silence, but not an easy one. After a few swigs Stan can't help it.

“Did you ever fuck the Dorito?” He asks and regrets it only until Ford chokes on his whiskey and starts to cough like he's dying, face red and eyes glistening. Stan leans over to pound him on the back even though he knows that only makes it worse. Ford eventually shoves him away roughly and Stan tries not to laugh.

“What the hell?” He hisses, still struggling to breathe. Stan shrugs.

“Just wonderin’.” Ford glares at his whiskey but doesn't answer. Stan narrows his eyes.

“How did that even work?” He asks, almost awed.

“Shut up.” Ford snaps and takes a large swallow of whiskey, draining the glass and them promptly filling it.

“Sorry,” Stan offers, almost sincere. Ford says nothing and the silence is definitely taut now. “Did ya ever regret it?” Ford grunts in response. “Yeah, never mind.” Stan sighs, finishes his glass, holds it out for Ford to fill. Ford does.

They sit in tense contemplation. Stan doesn't know what to do, what to say. It felt easier, earlier, when his head was pounding so hard he couldn't think.

“So there was this guy I ran with for a while,” Stan starts. “Good guy, not a dick or nothin’. Moved shit for him, didn't ask too many questions.” Stan takes another sip. Ford doesn't look at him, but he does tilt his head, listening. “He didn't have a soulmate. Had a snake on one hand and nothin’ on the other.” Stan looks down at his wrists. “I was jealous.” Stan falls silent, not really knowing why he said all that but glad he did.

“When I met Bill,” Ford says, voice a low rumble. “I thought he was everything I'd ever wanted. He was witty and clever and he knew so much.” Ford sighs into his whiskey, wistful. “I was proud to have his mark on my skin. I was so proud whenever he talked about destiny. Our destiny. Changing the world.” Ford takes a sip, lost in the past. “He never lied, you know. He was never completely honest but he never lied. When he betrayed me I thought…” Ford trails off, swallows hard. “I thought I'd die.” Stan nods, understanding. “He had been my everything for so long that without him I…well. And then I thought: ‘This must be how Stan feels.’” Ford finally looks at him, eyes glassy with drink and old grief, stretching out the arm marked with a fish; Stan answers with his own soulmate marked hand. “Did you ever hate me, Stan?” Ford asks, bringing his other hand to cradle Stan’s, while the first traces the six fingered hand and bold scar. Stan lets his hand be held, his scar stroked. He shakes his head.

“Not even when I wanted to.” He confesses into the small, dim galley over two glasses of whiskey. Ford makes a quiet, wounded noise.

“Stan,” Ford murmurs, gently pulling Stan’s hand toward his mouth. He kisses Stan’s dry, hairy knuckles. “Will you sleep with me tonight?” He cheeks are whiskey red, nose bright and shiny, eyes soft. Stan snorts.

“I'm too old and drunk to get it up, Sixer.” Stan drawls, dry as his skin. Ford flushes darker, shakes his head.

“No, just...like when we were kids.” He says, pulling Stan’s hand to lay against his cheek. Ford's stubble is prickly, his skin loose. Stan’s mouth goes feels parched no matter how hard he swallows.

“Ya sure ya wanna be in the same bed as me, Sixer? I kick and I'm gonna be toxic after that soup.” Ford snorts, wrinkling his nose in distaste, his eyes in fond amusement.

“Why do I love you?” He asks. Both he and Stan blush as the words linger in air. Stan clears his throat, hand starting to sweat against Ford's face.

“Cause yer the world's smartest idiot.” He says, then insistently pulls his hand free, Ford making a small, discontented sound. “Now leggo, I gotta hit the head and you gotta clean up dinner.” Stan stands with a groan and a series of popped joints. Ford just sighs and mutters something unfavorable under his breath.

Stan changes into his sleep clothes, worn boxers and a stained but clean undershirt. Ford's taking his turn in the shower, humidity from the steam making the small space of the Stan-o-War II sticky. He stares at the two bunks, each narrow, just wide enough for one body. He doesn't see how he and Ford could share. He considers pushing them together but the beds are bolted to the floor like everything else that could slide dangerously during a storm. He eyes the floor between the bunks. It's narrow, but wider than the bunks and with some cleverness he could make the mattresses of both beds fit. He starts to pulls mattresses to the floor, plan taking shape in his head. It would be hard as hell to get up in the morning, but that was tomorrow's problem.

When Ford emerges from the shower, damp and dressed with a sleep shirt and flannel pants, he stops and stares, blinking owlishly.

“Welcome!” Stan says with a flourish. “To Fort Stan!” Ford gives him an inscrutable look, eyes wandering over the mess of bedclothes and pillows gathered sloppily into something resembling something that could be a bed, but could also by the by product of a break in. Stan starts to get nervous when Ford’s face hardens into something determined, takes the few strides between them swiftly. Stan suppresses a flinch when Ford brings both hands up to cradle Stan’s face and kiss him.

Of their two shared kisses, this one is the most earnest. Ford starts off with swift, chaste pecks until Stan lets his mouth fall open, lets his own hands latch onto Ford’s forearms. Ford isn’t the smoothest kisser, but Stan’s pretty rusty, too. He tries to lick into Ford’s mouth and Ford tries to lick into his and their tongues slide over each other in something wet and sloppy that has Stan laughing breathlessly and Ford chuckling, sliding his lips along Stan’s jaw and nibbling at his neck. Stan’s laughter chokes into a surprised gasp--surprised at how sensitive he is, at how good it feels, the way he can feel the tingle of nerves straight to his jaw and brain and, in a muffled way, his dick. Stan pushes at Ford with a grunt. Ford hums, gives a last nip before letting himself be pushed back.

“I wasn’t kiddin’, Ford, I ain’t gettin’ it up.” Stan warns, face red, humiliated by age. Ford just smiles.

“I know.” He says and the tugs Stan to the mess of bedding. “This reminds me of the Mustelids of seven dash two backlash.” He says, eyes gleaming with enthusiastic reminiscence. Stan gingerly settles to lean against a pillow while Ford sits in the middle of the bedding.

“That an insult?” Stan asks, brows arched, lips quirked. Ford scoffs.

“Hardly!” He shifts forward into Stan’s space. “They are notoriously clever,” Ford says against Stan’s ear. “They're know to steal the best materials for their nests.” Ford kisses his neck. Stan shudders. His gut clenches in that delicious way. His dick twitches but remains uninterested like a hound past his prime.

“Ford, I’m serious, I can’t,” Stan warns. Ford just hums and guides him down until he’s prone on the floor of Fort Stan.

“Relax, Stan,” Ford murmurs to his neck. “Relax.” A hot breath.

“Ford.” He tries to warn but it sounds like a moan. He pushes, hard against Ford’s firm, lean chest. “Ford.” He says more sharply. Ford pulls back, confused.

“What’s wrong?”

“Ford, not...not when we’ve been drinking, okay?” Stan tries to smile but his smile pulls tightly and he's too tense. Ford frowns.

“I--Okay.” Ford swallows, shakes his head. “Of course,” he says and Stan scowls, watching his brother slip behind that facade of nonchalance. Stan leans in and kisses Ford’s impassive mouth until it moves against his. Stan pulls back.

“Let’s just--” Stan stumbles, face twisted. Ford chuckles.

“Cuddle?” He offers and Stan scowls further.

“No! Just--” Stan chews his lip, thinking. “Can’t I just feel you?” Stan asks and Ford melts, dragging Stan’s aching body against his in a full body hug.

“You only have to ask,” Ford murmurs to Stan’s neck where he’s spooning him. Stan grudgingly relaxes into the embrace, lets Ford's warmth sink into his sore muscles.

“Wait,” Stan wiggles away from a grumbling Ford, gathers the blankets and drapes first Ford, then falls back down covered with his own. “Okay.” He sighs and Ford huffs a laugh, pulling Stan back to him.

“Okay,” he murmurs, one arm slung around Stan’s generous waist, gently stroking his stomach. Stan hums, suddenly tired despite his earlier episode. Ford's whispering something quietly against his hair. Stan lets the damp heat of Ford's mouth and the deep rumble of his words sooth him to sleep.

 

Stan wakes to a hand on his stomach, carefully dragging six fingertips up and down. He mumbles wordlessly, a noise of neither content nor discontent, just a vague noise to alert his brother that he's awake. The hand pauses, then resumes with a broad, flat palm. To that, Stan wiggles back into the warm body behind him before waking fully with a snort.

“Well, g’mornin’.” He slurs with a sleepy smirk, grinding back into Ford’s very perky morning wood. Ford muffles a grunt into Stan’s neck, hot breath tickling his ear.

“Better with you,” Ford murmurs with a light kiss on the back of his neck. Stan groans, full bodied.

“Tha’s it. Just cockblocked yerself,” Stan grumbles, squirming reluctantly away from his brother. Ford just tightens his arm, so much stronger than Stan expects.

“Stay,” Ford says, sighing into Stan’s shoulder. The arm holding him loosens to slide out, six fingered hand encasing Stan’s five. Ford tugs until he pulls Stan’s hand almost flush with his ear, and then Ford is kissing his wrist. Stan grumbles but lets Ford continue his obsessive but gentle pecks until Ford nips the thin skin there and sucking.

“Jesus, Ford!” Stan tries to jerk his hand away, only succeeds when Ford lets go. He holds the wrist in front of him, sees the funny little fish mark and the darkening bruises Ford left behind. Stan snorts.

“Huh,” he looks at the fish and he remembers that he saw it yesterday. Probably explained Ford's sudden interest, the tragic moron. “Like a damn teenager,” he grumbles. Ford chuckles, sets a hand on Stan’s hip and thrusts once against his ass.

“Making up for lost time,” he says, smugly when Stan doesn’t repress the shiver fast enough.

“Awful cocky back there.” Stan drawls, willing the hot blush away from his face. Ford huffs an honest laugh.

“You have no idea,” Ford purrs, grinding playfully into Stan’s ass again. Stan reaches back to slap at Ford’s hands.

“Knock it off, horndog.” He growls.

“Make me,” Ford rumbles hotly against his neck, big hand sliding forward to grope at Stan’s slowly interested dick.

“Teenager,” Stan hisses like a curse, hips twitching into the unfamiliar pressure of a foreign hand.

“Do you want me to stop?” Ford asks with a gentle squeeze making Stan moan.

“Asshole,” he grumbles affectionately, reaching his hand back to grab Ford’s ass, feel the way it shifts with the languid grinding of Ford’s hips. Ford groans appreciatively, nuzzling into the nape of his neck.

“Need to make up for lost time,” Ford sighs again, pecking Stan with small, sweet kisses.

“By humping my ass like a dog?” Stan asks while grinding back anyway.

“This is a bit juvenile, isn't it?” Ford pulls away in slips his hand beneath the elastic of Stan's boxers. “May I?” Ford asks coyly, rubbing his thumb against Stan’s hip.

“Like I could stop ya.” Stan says, the hand on Ford's ass moving to help.

“Do you not want this?” Ford's hand stills, voice serious. Stan props himself up on his elbow to twist and stare at his brother.

“The hell, Ford, ya gonna give a guy a complex.”

“I just want to make sure you don't feel...obligated.” Ford says carefully, hand still mockingly warm on Stan’s thigh. Stan groans, flops back to the mattress like a fish.

“Just take my damn boxers off, I ain't young enough for this.” He can feels Ford's frown, imagines the little line that creases between his eyebrows. The hand resumes it's massage but doesn't push the cloth away. Stan grumbles, moving to do it himself before a hand catches his wrist, gentle but firm. “Ford,” he warns.

“Tell me you want this, Stan.” Ford says, voice unusually small and soft. “Please.” The please does it and Stan huffs.

“Sixer, I wanted ya for forty fucking years. When we worked on the Stan O War and ya took of yer shirt,” Stan leers back at his brother. “I’d imagine lickin' every drop o’ sweat offa ya.” Stan finishes in a throaty whisper and feels Ford's hip jerk violently forward, very hard dick insistent at his ass.

“Jesus.” Ford groans into his neck.

“So you gonna takes these off or what?” Stan pushes at his boxers. Ford almost growls, tugging them down harshly, just enough to expose Stan’s dick and ass. Stan stretches his arm back, pulling at Ford's own sleep pants. Ford grabs his wrist, again, pushing it away to remove them himself.

“Touchy.” Stan grumbles until Ford starts gnawing on his neck and shoulders, hand running up and under Stan’s shirt.

“Did you ever touch yourself in Fort Stan? Did you imagine this?” He demands with a particularly well placed bite that has Stan groaning with his whole body.

“Near painted the damn thing white,” he pants, back arching as the hand under his shirt scratches what'll be six red marks down his chest.

“While I was sleeping? Did you listen to me sleeping? Did you do it then?” Ford's thrusting his hot dick against Stan’s bare ass, the slick head sliding against a cheek, a thigh. Stan flails back to grab Ford's ass again, the movement of the muscles more pronounced under the soft skin. He moans when Ford’s dick manages to slide right in his crack.

“Best times was when you thought I was asleep and jerked it. You'd try an’ muffle yerself and I’d nearly blow my load just like that.” Stan's rewarded by Ford near gnawing on his ear and the soft, sensitive spot just beneath it that makes Stan shiver and his toes curl.

“Voyeur.” He hisses, low and hot, nails scraping over his chest again, Ford's dick bumping his ass. Stan finally gives, brings his hand up to spit in it. “Wait.” Ford rolls away and Stan curses.

“The hell, Ford!” Stan rolls onto his back to watch his brother case the underside of his bed.

“Lube.” Ford says, emerging with a familiar tube. Stan quirks a brow as his heart trips over itself.

“Need to get wet, huh?” Stan asks.

“You do.” Ford says as he moves back to Stan’s side. Stan feels his heart flip again, almost nervous.

“Y-yeah, you got plans for that?” He asks. Ford smiles at him, leans to kiss his lips.

“Mhm. Roll back over.” He says against Stan’s lips. Stan swallows and moves to roll on his stomach, but Ford stops him on his side. “Just like that,” he sighs. Stan nods, not sure why.

“It’s, ah, been a minute, Sixer.” Stan says, hating the slight tremble in his voice. Ford kisses that tender spot beneath his ear again that makes everything in Stan melt.

“It’ll be okay.” He whispers and Stan nods again. He shivers when he hears the cap pop on the lube, the gross, obscene  _ sploot _ of the lube itself. There’s a shift behind him and Ford’s low moan and Stan can image Ford touching himself, thumbing the ridge of his cock, sliding a wet hand over the shaft until it shines. Stan answers with his own noise, palming his dick, smearing the premium that gathered there from the teasing. He shudders and Ford grunts, nibbling on Stan’s shoulder, more lube squelching onto his hand, and then the wet hand makes Stan yelp when is moves between his thighs.

“Ford, what the-- _ oh. _ ” Stan gasps as Ford grabs his cups him from behind, lube making everything slippery and then Ford is kneading Stan’s balls, two fingers reaching forward to stroke the base of Stan’s shaft. Stan can’t help the twitching of his hips into his own hand and back into Ford’s gentle, hot, wet embrace. He rolls his head back and he feels Ford huff when he gets a face full of Stan’s hair. Stan just pants. “ _ Ah _ , fuck, Ford,  _ je _ sus.”

“I’m going to fuck your thighs,” Ford says, leaning to mouth the brand at Stan’s shoulder. Stan moans loudly.

“Yes.” He hisses as Ford pulls his hand back, brushing his fingers against that place between his balls and ass that makes Stan groan like an old motor. “Keep your legs closed.” He says into Stan’s shoulder, a warm hand still damp with lube resting on his hip to steady Ford’s first thrust which slides easily between Stan’s thigh and just against his balls in a sensory tease. The two of them groan together. Ford starts slowly thrusting and Stan finds that he likes this, likes letting his legs loosen to hear Ford’s grunt of displeasure; likes squeezing them tight until Ford is whining against the pressure. He like the grazes against his balls and when Ford finally wraps a calloused hand with that extra finger against his dick Stan makes a noise like an animal, bucking into Ford’s hand, meeting his thrusts, trying not to squirm at the sensations. Ford’s hips start stuttering, moving fast and hard and now Stan has to angle his hips so that Ford’s piston of a dick can’t bruise his tender bits and then he feels Ford shudder and  _ bite _ into his shoulder, muffling a yell. Stan shouts and Ford comes too quickly, pumping Stan furiously while latched to him like a leech.

“ _ Ah _ , fuck, f- _ uuh _ , F _ ooord _ .” Stan’s voice has gone embarrassingly high as tension coils in his gut, hotter that he’s felt in years and then he’s coming, eyes rolling back into his head. His hand scrambles backward and Ford grabs it as Stan throws his head back, crying out. Ford shushes him, puffs off breaths against his neck as Stan gasps and pants. He blinks rapidly as he comes back to himself and he realizes he’s been crying. Ford’s rubbing a hand up and down his side in a soothing motion, gentle kisses against his neck. Stan wants to wrench free from that tenderness--it feels like bruise on his heart and suddenly he’s crying in earnest. His dick is sticky with jizz, his thighs, too. He’s got hickies like a randy kid and he’s bawling. Ford hugs him, gross, wet hand around his middle.

“Sh, Stan, it’s okay, I’m here, it’s okay.” He soothes into Stan’s gray hair. Stan shakes his head and then pushes at Ford until he has enough room to turn around.

“I lost you,” he sobs, shamed even as the tears are hot against his cheeks and his boxers tangle awkward around his legs. “You were gone,” he sobs again, fists landing softly against Ford’s chest in a parody of an assault. Ford shushes him, lets him wriggle without comment and wraps an arm around him, hugs him tightly. “You left me.” Stan says, tears hot on his face and he’s never cried like this, not since he’d been kicked out of his home for the stupid mark a cruel universe gave him. He cries, breath hitching against his big brother’s shirt, drenching it. Ford rubs his back, a hand reaching awkward from the angle they’re in to scritch his hair.

“I’m sorry.” Ford says, secret and sincere.

“You didn’t want me.” Stan says around another choked sob. He’s too old to be weeping like this but he can’t stop; as if some damn had been broken by Ford’s dick and now Stan can’t stop crying. The arm around him spasms and hugs him harder, Ford’s face nuzzling into him, scruff dragging.

“I’m sorry.” He says again and Stan can feel a wetness against his skin and he knows Ford is crying too.

“Goddamn it.” He curses and scrubs his free hand against his face. “First time I got laid in years and I’m cryin’.”

“Stanley,” Ford still sounds almost fragile and Stan swallows once, twice around the tightness. The silence stretches as Ford just hugs him, sniffling as Stan coughs and clears his throat. Suddenly:

“I love you,” Ford says and Stan curses, low and angry.

“I waited.”

“I know.”

“You were  _ gone _ .”

“I’m sorry.”

Stan hugs his brother tightly.

“Please,” he says and it hurts like a punch to the balls to beg. “Don’t leave me again.” Ford tries to burrow deeper into him, mouth moving against his neck.

“I won’t. I promise, Stanley. You and me forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Be careful when you cast out your demons that you don’t throw away the best of yourself."  
> Friedrich Nietzsche


End file.
